


Every Eye Will See

by flipfloppandas



Series: Blind Eyes [1]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body Dysphoria, Child Abuse, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Post Mpreg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 150,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipfloppandas/pseuds/flipfloppandas
Summary: Before Earth, before his change of heart and before his family, there had been a son he had never wanted, made from Frieza’s seed and born from his body. Then he was dead, and Vegeta made sure to forget he had ever been there at all. Only, he wasn't dead. He was alive. Tormented and abused, but alive, and now Vegeta will do what he couldn't have done the first time. He will save him.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta, Frieza/Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Relationship(s) - Relationship, Son Goku & Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Vegeta (Dragon Ball) & Original Character(s)
Series: Blind Eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908196
Comments: 27
Kudos: 92





	1. The Baby

**Author's Note:**

> This is the heavily revised version of a fic I wrote when I was a young teenager still learning the ins and outs of writing, which I had not updated in five years. This story is finished, and I will be posting chapters every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. READ THE WARNINGS.
> 
> (Just to be clear) This is NOT a Goku/Vegeta fanfiction.
> 
> *This chapter includes body dysphoria, attempted abortion, and graphic depictions of violence.*

Prologue _: The Baby_

_The eye is the lamp of the body. So if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is evil, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness?_

—Matthew 6:22-23

**_The Past:_ **

The moment Vegeta awakened, he found that he could not open his eyes. The lids were heavy, as though they were glued in place. It was more than a little unsettling, truth be told, to be physically conscious yet unable to move his eyes, never mind the rest of his body.

Was he experiencing some sort of sleep paralysis? That could be so, and he _was_ still tired after all. Still, as much as would have preferred to relax and let sleep claim him once more, he was stubborn before all else, and his seeming inability to open his eyes made him all the more determined to do so.

After several attempts he finally did manage to crack his eyes open. After another several moments, he found that no amount of inner deliberation could tell him where he was.

His blood filled with prickles of panic. He was not afraid, per say, but even a person as controlled and as powerful as he could not cease his body’s natural reaction to awakening in an unfamiliar place with heavy eyes, useless muscles, and ears deafened by internal ringing. 

No matter how many times he blinked, the ceiling above him remained blurred and unrecognizable—the only helpful detail he could gather being that it was too bright in color to be the ceiling of his own sleeping chamber. It was not the first time he had risen from his sleep and been perplexed by his whereabouts, after all, there were many reasons why that could occur—he was on a mission; he was moved into a new sleeping chamber, to name a few—but by now his befuddled mind ought to have recalled his bedding arrangements from the night before.

He waited a full minute, but he still could not remember.

Experimentally, he moved his arm across the sheets. His body seemed to have shaken off the paralysis from before, but the movement was still slow and sluggish as he searched for the unmistakable warm lump that could only be another person, as the possibility of a sexual encounter was not lost to him. After all, it would not be the first time that he had awoken to a sleeping mass beside him that belonged to one of the female soldiers. It was not often, as Vegeta was not nearly depraved enough to bother putting in the effort it took to charm a bed partner, but it did happen often enough that he couldn't rule it out as a possibility. Likely, it would be a soldier whose name he would forget by morning—if he had known it at all.

After a few fruitless moments, Vegeta stopped sliding his arm. There was nothing next to him; the sheets beside him were cold, and he still could not recall where he was. 

He could only assume that while he'd been unconscious, someone had moved him somewhere against his will. Probably somewhere he didn't want to be.

He heard himself groan as his arm rose to throw itself across his forehead. While his body was numb, it was impossibly warm; his head felt strained from a wave of nauseous, and the ringing in his ears gave no signs of stopping any time soon.

He was fucking miserable—to put it mildly.

His vision swam as he lifted his heavy head to examine himself. He was lying on a bed, as he had figured. The blanket of the bed was grey, thin, and soft, and there was an even softer pillow cushioned where his head had been. The room itself—that of which he could see—was large but rather empty with walls colored a bland light silver. Across the room was a double door, and there was another door behind where his bed was facing. Next to the bed was a dark-colored bin, held up on a mobile cart.

He also noticed that he was nude, with a thick, white gauze wrapped tightly around his bloated abdomen.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to banish away his nausea. He figured that he was in the hospital ward, if his sick feeling and the bandage were any indication, but his memory still refused to cooperate. How badly was he injured? Aside from the dull sting in his abdomen under the bandages, there was nothing else truly ailing him. He could not see the wound, of course, but was it truly so bad that he required pain medication? It could not be life-threatening, he was sure, because he would have been assigned to a healing chamber instead.

Then he heard wailing.

At first, he had thought he had imagined it, but quickly grew irritated when it refused to cease. The noise had to be coming from a living creature—it was too high and erratic to be anything otherwise—but he was certain that he was alone in the room. Nevertheless, the cries only grew in volume, escalating to hacking, almost choked breaths, and the noise was very much making Vegeta’s steady headache worse, and his irritable mood even more dangerous.

His ears told him that it was the bin that was screaming bloody murder at him. He pondered momentarily on whether or not he had finally lost his mind.

Then he remembered.

The force at which his recollections returned had him reeling back against the pillow, memory after memory flooding back to him violently with no regard for his weary state.

It was while he was massaging his temple with his oddly bare fingers that he wondered how he could have actually forgotten about that… _thing_. How could nearly eight months’ worth of memories slip his mind?

Perhaps he should be thankful that he had forgotten, even for a little bit, about that parasite in the medical bin. Now it was a part of his life again, whining for attention it did not deserve.

Vegeta let out a groan, though it was barely audible over the wailing that ricocheted around the room and straight to his ears. He was angry—angry with the crying; angry that they had left the creature with him; angry that it existed in the first place; angry that the memories he never wanted to remember were back.

* * *

It had started with nausea.

As superior as his body was, nausea was not foreign to him—if anything, it was _because_ his body was superior that he was so familiar with it. His saiyan senses were more sensitive than most other species (particularly his sense of smell), so disgusting scents and flavors (though, strangely enough, gruesome sights barely registered a reaction) were quick to give him sick, almost gag-worthy sensations.

This nausea had been different though, much different. He was not even sure that ‘intense’ could accurately describe it. Through the morning until the time he slept, waves of pain would plague him—his head would spin sometimes when he so much as stood, and the awful urge to vomit lingered constantly in the back of his throat.

That was not normal.

So naturally, he ignored it.

Well, perhaps ‘ignored’ was not the right word to use. More accurate would be to say that he had logically concluded that his newfound fatalistic condition was in some way connected to his heat, and thus there was nothing to be done about it.

The nausea had started not long after his latest heat. It had been just like any other: six or so days of small, barely noticed stomach cramps; an aroma that was invisible to his own nose, but supposedly pleasing to others permeating from his body; a smidgen of extra irritation added to his already sour mood; an ever so slightly increased libido. Apparently, saiyan males were documented to go through heat only twice a year, while females were subject to it nearly every other month. Female scents were also stronger than males, their libido maybe a bit higher, their moods possibly slightly more irritable, and then of course the whole bleeding thing. Vegeta did not know many details on female heat—he barely knew anything about his own. It was his body’s way of encouraging him to reproduce; there was nothing else about it he really needed to know. It was not something so drastic that it affected how he regularly went about his days, and if anything, the heightened libido and the pleasure induced from that almost made it worth it.

So, as he recalled: regularly scheduled heat, followed by wonderful bouts of consensual sex with as many feminine-inclined specimens within his reach, and a bit of the non-consensual variety with the person he hated most, but that was nothing new. Nothing pleasant, but certainly nothing new.

Unwanted sex was not as awful as someone of a weaker will may believe. Once it was over Vegeta would often find himself forgetting it had even happened. Over the years, Vegeta learned that there were far worse things than being forced into someone else’s bed. It severely hurt his pride, yes, but the burn of Frieza forcing his way into his body was nothing in comparison to, say, being beaten within an inch of his life. Really, as far as pain went, forced fucking was not even in the top ten.

When he thought back on all the symptoms, however, he felt like an idiot for not putting the pieces together. At the time though, those occurrences seemed so unrelated from each other that it had not dawned on him to connect them. Or what connecting them could _mean_.

Vegeta was not one to seek unnecessary help (or any help, really), but if there was anyone who knew of the anatomy of a saiyan, it was Nappa. He might have asked Raditz, but the fool had already departed on his thirteen months long journey to the planet called Earth to retrieve his younger brother. And in any case, Raditz' knowledge of saiyan biology was probably just as ignorant as his. Nappa was not particularly bright, but in this area, his age and life experience gave him the advantage.

However, even after Vegeta’s reluctant admission of his condition, Nappa still hadn't had a clue as to what the problem was, so Vegeta more or less had no other choice but to continue ignoring it, and hope that it would go away on its own.

The problem escalated to the point in which he got painful cramps that lasted for hours on end, so awful he could barely train or even eat. Not long after that, began the terrible bouts of diarrhea. Not many things truly embarrassed Vegeta, but that certainly crossed a line.

At that point, he knew he could no longer ignore it, not when he was so clearly getting worse. Swallowing his pride for a second time, he consulted in Nappa again. Maybe the oaf could identify it now as saiyan-related disease now that it had reached such a height. He hoped that Nappa could identify the problem, and he hoped he could state that it was not fatal, just inconveniently irritating. The last thing Vegeta wanted to do was inform the medics of his condition. One could only swallow so much of their pride at once.

So, he told Nappa, in a succinct manner, all the key points: the heat, the nauseous, the stomach cramps, and the diarrhea. Nappa, of course, was at least five minutes slower than every other person in the fucking universe, and took his time rubbing his chin and contorting his face in various phases of thought. Vegeta only leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. It was a signal that he was not particularly in a hurry, but it would be best to not try his patience.

“Have you fucked?” The burly man blurted so bluntly after his moment of ‘lost-in-thought-grunting’ that Vegeta’s eyelids popped in slight surprise.

The prince then raised a brow, which was just about the extent of his confusion he allowed to show on his stoic face. “Fucked?”

“Have you been fucked?” Nappa rephrased, as if that made the question any less odd and invasive.

“Well,” Vegeta began. “I am sure that even _you_ are aware that that information is none of your business, so I’m going to assume that you asked me that because you believe it may have something to do with my... condition. Am I correct?” Gods, had Frieza given him some kind of _disease_? That thought was more than a little appalling.

Nappa’s skin paled in a way that made Vegeta almost feel uneasy. “Yes, actually.”

"Well? Spit it out!" Vegeta snapped.

"Well I... I think I have a theory... but it doesn’t make any sense…" Nappa said looking away and scratching the back of his hairless head.

"Just tell me, damn it." Vegeta did not like the feeling of dread that was prickling in the pit of his gut.

"Well... how do I put this?" Nappa said, looking away from the prince.

“Nappa, you are officially trying my patience.”

The man nodded “Alright, I suppose I’ll just start from the beginning, I guess.”

At the prince’s glare, Nappa quickly stood to his feet. Vegeta was annoyed by how far he had to tip back his head to watch the pacing giant. "Well, no one can agree on a date, but some several thousand years ago, a terrible plague began to wipe out saiyans all across Planet Vegeta. Since saiyan males have a better immune system, more of our men survived the disease, while most our females were wiped out.”

Nappa sat then but would not meet Vegeta’s eyes. "As time went by, the few females that did survive were having a hard time conceiving and carrying a healthy child to full term, or even surviving the pregnancy at all, as their bodies had been permanently weakened by the plague. It was around then that..." Nappa paused, "... saiyan males gained the ability to carry children."

Vegeta stared blankly at him for a moment. Then: “What the hell are you on?”

“It’s true!”

“Nappa that doesn’t even make sense. Men can’t just... _adapt_ to carry children like women. That isn’t how biology works.” At least not the biology of saiyans, that he was certain of.

“Well, some scholars believed that males always were able to carry children, but our high levels of testosterone negated it until the plague weakened us. Others believe that some of the defected babies our women birthed may have been some type of hermaphrodites and their descendants eventually evolved into males who retained the ability to conceive. I can't tell you which, or if both or neither are true. It was all just speculation.”

The sick feeling from before was starting to resurface. “If this bullshit is true, then why am I only hearing of it now?”

Nappa ran his hand over his bare head. “I learned it in school my Tenth Year.”

Vegeta sneered at that. Vegeta would have been twelve years old in that level. Naturally as a prince, he had never attended any public schools, but rather had tutors teach him all that he was expected to learn in whichever given year. He had been advanced for his age, but he had been taken long before even he could reach that level. 

Nappa was no teacher and had only put effort towards ensuring Vegeta and Raditz knew the most basics of education. Vegeta had never minded—he could read and do just beyond basic math. He had no need of anything more in-depth than that.

It would seem that he was wrong.

Nappa took Vegeta’s silence as the green light to continue, “Well, as time passed and the descendants began to develop as more male-appearing, they became rather unsuitable hosts. As you can imagine, it was already difficult enough to push a baby out of an asshole but coupled with the fact that males’ hips aren’t as wide as women’s, it became damn near impossible. The safest way to retrieve the baby was through cutting it out of the stomach, or else it would pretty much tear it’s host apart until they both wound up dead."

Nappa took a deep breath, and for a moment, he looked like he had the weight of every year of his life on his shoulders. "I'm sure you can imagine just how gods-awful early saiyans were at performing such a complex surgery. Survival rate was pretty shit no matter what. That’s why after our numbers of healthy females came back up, it went as an unspoken rule that no males should strive to become pregnant, and anyone who did killed the brat before it could become a nuisance. By the time our doctors were able to perform more successful C-sections, the majority of males weren’t interested in carrying, if they even knew that the ability existed in the first place…"

Vegeta’s eyes were on the gold-tips of his boots, his arms crossed across his chest. He can feel the beginnings of rage start to creep in. “You didn’t think that this was something I needed to know?”

“I... the medics on Planet Vegeta would’ve noticed when you were born, but it wasn’t anywhere in your documents when I looked. Your father must have been trying to hide it.”

Vegeta did not bother to refute that. He did not remember his father well, but it still sounded like exactly something he would do.

“The medics here have no reason to lie," he says. "They examined me when I was first recruited, and every time they stuffed me in the healing chambers. They would have known and updated my documents.”

Nappa coughed uncomfortably. “I haven’t looked at your files since that one time,” he admitted, seeming embarrassed by what that implied about his caretaking skills. “I hadn’t really thought about it. It didn’t seem to matter.”

“But you think it matters now?”

“Yes, I—uh...” he trailed off awkwardly, before hesitantly asking, “Was it Frieza?”

Vegeta said nothing.

Nappa cleared his throat and didn't push the question, though his anger on behalf of his prince’s virtue was quite apparent. “I think that’s what’s wrong with you. That you’re... you’re...”

Nappa was greeted with silence once again. No movement, not even a flicker on Vegeta’s blank, downwards tilted face. The bald saiyan coughed awkwardly again.

"Er, Vegeta...?" he questioned after a while as he inconspicuously leaned towards the door, probably hoping to increase his chances of survival once the prince's temper finally snapped. As if anything other than Vegeta's desire and restraint could protect him.

Finally, Vegeta stood. First, he pulled off his armor. Then he peeled off the upper half of his spandex suit. He spread his arms out, almost like an invitation. He did not dignify Nappa with eye contact, only kept his still blank face tilted up towards the ceiling.

To his credit, it only took Nappa a moment to catch on. He reared his leg back, aimed at Vegeta’s abdomen, and kicked his prince as hard as he could.

After that, Vegeta’s life had gone somewhat back to normal... for all of two days. It was around that time that he realized that the thing had survived. If he were not so thoroughly irritated by this turn of events, he would have been impressed by its tenacity.

He sought out Nappa again. Nappa seemed to have grasped the situation before Vegeta even had a chance to open his mouth, though he held up his hand once the oaf reared back his leg for a second time.

"Were you holding back when you hit me?” he asked.

“No...”

“Then why is it still here?”

“Well...” Nappa thought for a moment. “Your body is still just as resilient as it always is. Even hitting you my hardest... we both know I can’t put much a dent in you.”

“So, what you're saying is: I’ll need someone stronger than me to actually do damage to it.”

Nappa bit his lip and nodded.

He thought of Frieza, of Zarbon, of the idiotic poses of a certain _force_. He sneered as each one of their faces flashed through his mind.

“How long?”

"How long what?"

"How long does it need to— _gestate_."

“Er..." Nappa looked distinctly uncomfortable. "When was your last heat?”

"Two and a half months ago,” he answered, his words smooth and quick.

Nappa tilted his head up, his face twisting in thought for another moment. "Well I'm not sure how long the brat will be in there, considering it’s a half-blood. In fact, it probably won’t even survive a full term.”

“That wasn’t my question, Nappa.” He doubted that would be the case anyhow. It seemed inconsistent for the creature to survive a deliberate physical attack against its life, only to perish _later_ to some biological dissimilarity.

“Er—a proper saiyan pregnancy normally lasts around ten months.”

Just over seven months before _it_ was here, and that was not even a guarantee.

“Fuck,” he said, dread and trepidation cracking his detached facade. His knees nearly caved, the doorjamb he was pressed against barely keeping him on his feet. “ _Fuck_.”

“You could try killing it yourself!” Nappa offered, near desperate.

Vegeta only shook his head. He could not hit himself—at least, not hard enough to do what needed to be done—his body would instinctively hold itself back. He was sure that there were some type of termination medications in the infirmary for the female soldiers, but there was no point in him trying to sneak in and get it for himself (presuming he even knew which medications were the right ones), seeing as how the infirmary was constantly filled with medics, and they would not give it to him unless he specified the reason why.

“Well then why not someone else? Zarbon? Frieza even!”

Vegeta shook his head again. It was too risky, too unreliable. After all, it was not as if he spent his days being pounded into the dirt by those stronger than him. More importantly, he was certain that his pride could not withstand intentionally allowing himself to be beaten to a bloody pulp all over a mass of cells that was no bigger than his pinky finger.

It was almost funny really, how he could still think about pride at a time like this.

Nappa gave him a funny look. “Well, I suppose that an upside would be the strength boost that the brat would give you, but I really do hope you aren’t actually con—"

“ _What_?” Vegeta demanded.

“Well.” Nappa scratched the back of his head, looking like he regretted even mentioning it. “I’m not exactly an expert on saiyan babies, but I do recall reading that they contribute to your body in the same way you contribute to theirs. It basically means that your strength increases more quickly when you’re training while pregnant. I... can’t remember why that is, though... Has something to do with hormones or some shit like that.”

Vegeta mulled over the new information.

He did not have to think for long. “Alright then, I guess it can stay.”

If the situation were not as it was, it might've been amusing the way Nappa’s eyes bulged from his face. “ _What?!_ ”

“I can’t pass up an opportunity to get stronger.” Not that he particularly needed it—he was a saiyan after all, and was more than capable of getting by with his own abilities—but he had goals to reach, and those goals would not wait for him to gain strength naturally.

Nappa’s eyes widened. “B-but, Vegeta! You can’t—”

“Shut up, Nappa.” Vegeta straightened his back and held his head high. “Use that useless brain of yours for once. I am going to keep this parasite inside of me until it is no longer useful to me. The top priority of my life is to defeat Frieza, and I will use every resource I have to reach that goal.”

“Ah... right, that’s a good plan, Vegeta,” Nappa said, his hesitancy relaying his disbelief.

“Of _course,_ it is.”

“Yeah, uh... sorry, Vegeta,” Nappa amended as he followed him towards the door. He was stopped by a hand slamming into his abdomen.

Vegeta gave the larger saiyan a hard glare. “You’ll be keeping this too yourself.” Not that intimidation was necessary—Nappa was loyal to him before anything else. Even so, one could never be too sure.

At Nappa’s nod, Vegeta continued on, his eyes checking every corner of the hall to make sure they were not overheard.

“It’s too bad though,” Nappa said after a moment. “A creature created from you and the scoundrel; I’m curious what its power level would be.”

The thought had crossed Vegeta’s mind as well, but only for a moment. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

After that, Vegeta didn't talk about the situation that had befallen his body. The pregnancy wasn't too bad at that point: the nausea had lessened in intensity, and his bathroom habits leveled out as well. He still picked fights with his subordinates and trained to his heart's content—taking blows to the abdomen and all and taking no care to prevent it. Still, the brat was there. Vegeta knew so because he could _feel_ it.

It was an odd feeling, and unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and he hated it.

The pregnancy (his stomach twisted every time he thought of that word) started to annoy him again as it progressed, however. During his regular scuffles with the other soldiers, he would often have to cut his fun short due to the constant urges to piss, or when the occasional cramps would be so unbearable during his training sessions with Nappa that he would actually have to sit out for a moment lest he passed out. He felt strange, like a foreigner in his own body. His mind and his vessel were on two completely different pages, and he did not like it at all. 

During one of the few instances that he actually deigned to talk about his condition, he had asked Nappa whether not it was normal for his body to be enduring such turmoil during this time—there was simply no way that saiyan women could go through this hell while also upholding their warrior lifestyles.

Nappa had told him it was unusual—he had informed Vegeta that most saiyan pregnancies were smooth and hardly even seen as inconveniences. Nappa guessed that perhaps it was because he was a male, or that the brat was a half-blood.

(Vegeta thought maybe there was something wrong with it, like something in its very genetic makeup was flawed, and it was now fighting a battle for survival that it would surely lose.) 

(Vegeta doubted he was lucky enough for the problem to resolve itself that easily.)

It was not entirely awful, though. The symptoms were certainly annoying, but nothing he could not handle. Also, with every strain of his muscles he could feel himself growing stronger, and at a much faster rate than usual. It would seem that Nappa was correct in that regard, which was nothing he could complain about.

Then his stomach started to grow.

At first, he simply used his armor to cover the hard swell, which worked up until the middle of the fifth month, when the expandable armor started to stretch noticeably, and his lean frame clearly gained a layer of fat. At that point he rarely left his room. He did all his eating (lots and _lots_ of eating), training, and bathroom matters in the early morning when few were awake, and at night when everyone was asleep. No one seemed particularly suspicious of Vegeta's sudden disappearance—most probably assumed he was out on a mission if they cared enough to wonder. Frieza himself hadn't noticed, for it seemed that he was too busy with his own matters to bother Vegeta. A blessing, he recognized.

Still, it was a shitty way to live. Loneliness was never a particular concern for Vegeta, but he could not stand the boredom that ate away at him as he stared at the walls of his bed chambers for hours on end. It was during those times that he considered breaking into the medical unit, stealing the largest scalpel he could find, and cutting the parasite out of him. The past five months had brought a sufficient boost to his power—surely, he could be done with this creature now? He figured he could.

He never did attempt it, though. He simply pushed his body as much as he could in his own chambers and allowed his own power to continue to grow.

Not long after, the parasite began to move around. It was a bit of an unnerving feeling, to say the least. It clearly did not take kindly to being ignored either, it seemed, as the infernal kicking only raised in intensity the longer it went without attention. Once, while Vegeta had lain uncomfortably in bed, waiting for sleep to finally claim him, the parasite had kicked so hard that the outline of its foot somehow managed to poke through his hard belly. _That_ had certainly been discomfiting. With his thumb and forefinger, he had flicked at the tiny toes until it disappeared. The parasite had struck back with a kick even more powerful than the last, and thoroughly, vexed, Vegeta had flicked at it again. Back and forth it went until Vegeta realized he was actively engaging with the thing and how very absurd that was.

He had tried to go back to ignoring it, though it was not easy. The creature was restless—constantly moving around; pounding its feet against his insides as if it were trying to tear itself out. Vegeta had no choice but to acknowledge the nuisance when he had to use his hands to push at the tiny limbs until they were no longer lodged under his ribs—which they were nearly every night.

Sometimes, Vegeta even found himself talking to it. Given that he was barricaded in his room for most of the day with only the likes of Nappa for occasional company, he figured it was fair for him to speak to the only other thing that could hear him. The words he spoke were nothing particularly splendid—“Stop kicking me, bastard!” “Die already, parasite!”—but he was still talking to it all the same. Touching it, talking to it, playing with it... even he could see how these actions could be interpreted as _bonding_. 

The thought was repulsive. 

He would still kill it, of course—that was not debatable. After all, it was Frieza’s flesh and blood that attacked his ribs and listened to the abhorrent words he spoke—no amount of _“bonding”_ would change that. In any case, he was sure that once the parasite was finished tearing its way out his body, any attachment he had towards it would certainly vanish.

The ninth month was easily described by the word 'uncomfortable'. He was tired all the time, yet every position he tried to rest in was intolerable. Furthermore, he was horny as all hell. However, given that he would rather kill himself than let Nappa touch him, and was far too irritated by the idea of reaching around the gargantuan tumor that was his stomach now simply to relief himself, he was in a constant cycle boredom and insomnia, with nothing else to do aside from think about how much he wanted to fuck something. 

To top it off, his chest had begun to swell, and his nipples became sensitive to the touch. He tried not to think too hard about what that meant.

Never had Vegeta wanted the parasite to come out more than he did now. Given how shitty he felt—the fact that he could barely move from his cot attested to that—he genuinely wondered how much worse it could get. After all, it was only the ninth month. How was he supposed to survive another four weeks of this?

He never had to find out. One week past the ninth month, the parasite decided it was time.

The first contraction was so sudden that he had actually cried out in surprise. He had been napping, finally comfortable in the mass of pillows and blankets he had curled up upon. Disoriented from sleep, he nearly thought he was being attacked. After a moment though, he realized that the pain was internal, and that he was lying in a revolting mess of bodily fluid. Then the second wave hit, and it was far more painful than he had expected it to be.

Intense cramps ravaged his body over and over again. Wasn’t it too soon for them to be this close together? Wasn’t it too early for the pain to be this great? He didn’t know; he couldn’t even think.

The scouter on the stand next to his cot glowed with flashing yellow symbols. He snatched it and fit it over his eye.

 _“Vegeta,”_ Nappa’s voice rang through the device, _“I’m in the cafeteria. Did you want me to bring you back some foo—”_

“Fuck the food!” he shouted around a groan, his knees quivering as spasms wracked his body.

 _“What the he—_ oh. _Oh, fuck. Just... shit, hold on, I’ll be right there.”_

Vegeta wanted to tell him to fuck off, to leave him alone, but he was too preoccupied with holding back any more exclamations of his distress. He swore he could feel the innards of his body tearing apart as the parasite tried to fit its way through places it was never meant too. Hot blood gushed from his body like a fountain, and yet his muscles still convulsed around the parasite as it fought to pass through him. There was something distinctly awful about internal pain. How could you escape what was inside of you?

Vegeta pounded his fists furiously against his midriff, though he knew it would do no good. Even if the parasite died, it would still have to pass through his body somehow. His vision grew hazy, along with a dizzy sensation in his head. He regretted letting it stay; he should have tried harder to kill it when he had the chance. What good would the added power do if he were dead? Because certainly he was dying. He had survived battles against warriors that would have had his father cowering in fear, and yet his life was going to be taken by a life so small it hadn't even experienced its first breath of air.

Suddenly, he heard a loud sound. A hard kick at the door.

"Nappa?"

"Guess again, monkey. Frieza wishes to speak with you."

Vegeta clenched his eyes shut, dismay filling his chest. Of all times, Frieza would send that damned Zarbon after him.

Part of him had been a bit baffled by the lack of Frieza’s presence the last few months. It was not _unusual_ per say—Frieza was not on his ass _all_ the time. The tyrant was, after all, the emperor of a sizable chunk of the universe. Still though, to go months without a mission deployment? All this time and not even so much as a check-up?

“Alright!” he shouted back through his panting. His body contracted again, a roar of agony escaping him before he could bite down on the pillow. His ankles were drowning in the blood that flooded his boots.

Another loud pounding against the door. “What the hell is going on in there?”

“Fuck off, I said I’d be right there!”

Muted 'dings' seeped into the room. Zarbon was entering the code to unlock the door.

" _No_!" Vegeta yelled: "Don't come in here!" but the door was already sliding open.

It was almost amusing the way the condescending look on Zarbon’s face quickly fell into one of horror. “What in the _fuck_?”

Vegeta growled at him, trapping him with a heated glare.

He hated the way Zarbon eyed him, his calculating gaze taking in bloody spandex, and a full, round stomach. "There’s no way...”

“Get. _Out_.”

“You monkeys really are freaks of nature...” The words lacked the usual ill-mannered tone, but rather an air of genuine disbelief. Vegeta did not dignify them with a response.

Zarbon contemplated for a moment longer. Then he smirked, though it was shaky and looked forced, like the because surely not even he could bounce back from such a shock so fast. "So, I take it that _this_ is why you've been hiding for so long."

Again, Vegeta said nothing. He had been caught. Nothing he said would save him now.

"Hmm. I suppose I should get you to the medical ward. I don’t believe Frieza would be pleased if his favorite prince died without properly authorized permission.”

Vegeta snarled, his hands pushing his body away as Zarbon’s gold-tipped boots grew nearer. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

A tight grip found its way around his wrist. He wrenched his arm back, and fell onto his backside, only managing to scoot a foot away when the cyan-skinned man was back on him, wrapping a hand around his ankle. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Honestly, Vegeta, is all this necessary?” Zarbon replied with annoyance, swatting away Vegeta’s free foot when it struck at him. The hand on him squeezed until Vegeta could feel the bones of his ankle crack, but he still twisted and struggled. It did no good, of course; Zarbon was stronger than him on a regular day, and paired with the fact that he could barely even keep consciousness, he stood no chance as he was effortlessly dragged across the metallic floor, his face smearing in the blood left in his wake.

Still though, once they reached the archway between his chambers and the hall, he held on tight to the doorjamb, his fingers sinking into the metal. Zarbon yanked hard on his leg, popping several muscles, but still Vegeta did not let go. Blood clouded his eyes, ringing filled his ears, and yet he kept his grip. Distantly he could hear pounding footsteps resounding throughout the empty hall. There were more hands on him, all pulling, and yanking and he still fought.

Then there was a needle in his skin, and it was over.

* * *

He supposed that brought him back to the present.

He ripped the IV tubes from his arms, yanked the oxygen mask from his face, and scowled over at the bin next to the bed. They must have cut the parasite out before either of them could lose their lives, if the irritating whines Vegeta was forced to listen to were any indication.

Vegeta flopped back onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. How long had he been out? Why did they leave it with him? They must know it was Frieza’s—if not by appearance then certainly by a blood test. How many people knew?

Why was it still alive?

He trailed his eyes around the room in search of proper clothing. He had more important things to do than to waste his time here.

Even just thinking of moving brought his attention back to the ache in his abdomen. Underneath the thick bandage was the outline of his still-plump stomach. He wondered when it would shrink back to its regular flat shape, and when he would lose the unnecessary weight he had gained. Vegeta detested the layer of fat that covered his body.

The wailing he had nearly forgotten suddenly grew louder. The emptiness of the room seemed only to fuel the terrible volume.

Vegeta groaned and brought his fingers up to pinch his ears closed. When that proved fruitless, he finally snapped, “Shut up!”

The parasite had the audacity to ignore him and continued to cry.

Vegeta groaned out again, feeling almost despaired. He was thirsty, hungry, exhausted, and still too woozy to even get up from the bed, much less leave the room. How long did they expect him to listen to this _shit_?

The crying persisted. Vegeta ignored the stab of pain in his abdomen as he propped himself up, deciding that there was no such thing as ‘too woozy’, and would be damned if he spent another minute here. He ran his eyes across the room again, hoping against hope that he would catch the glimpse of a storage closet. He had absolutely no desire to stroll about the halls in a medical gown, but given the other choice was nakedness, he would take what he could get.

He saw no storage closet, and upon trying to stand he found that he could scarcely feel his legs. No medics came; the cries grew louder, and Vegeta’s patience had reached its breaking point.

He practically threw himself over the bin. " _Shut up_!"

He was greeted with a bundle wrapped in a thin, grey blanket. He yanked the cover back, more hard words on the tip of his tongue.

Yet, all words left him in that moment.

The thing was incredibly small. Its hair was rich and black against the pure-colored cushion. Thick spikes pointed out to one side and downward instead of upward like his, and a long bang rested between its eyelids—familiar in a way that he could not place. Its skin was several shades lighter than Vegeta’s tan color, like smooth vanilla. Its little face was turning red from its wailing. Twin black lines cut down its cheeks like scars, starting from the corner of its eyes and connecting underneath its chin. They were an odd feature—Frieza did not have black lines on his pink face, but Vegeta figured that that was where the trait was inherited, nonetheless.

Vegeta’s eyes trailed down to the tail. It had no fur, but the length was similar to the few saiyan babies he distantly recalled from his deep memory. He wondered if it was hyper-sensitive. He wondered if it would serve the same purpose as a proper saiyan tail did. He wondered a lot of things.

One of those things was that whatever Vegeta was looking at, it was not a parasite. It was a _baby_.

It was then that the baby squirmed, its tiny fists, complete with even tinier pitch-black nails, clenching against the assault of the cold room. The crying had lessened to a whine, and thin eyelids cracked open.

He shivered and turned away as Frieza’s blood red eyes stared back at him.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The baby’s features are based off of final form Frieza.
> 
> Can prologues be 7000 words? They can now.
> 
> The next chapter will take place thirteen years later, just after the Majin Buu saga (presuming Goku was in space for two years after Namek).


	2. The Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse, graphic depictions of violence.*

Chapter One: _The Question_

“ _Alright then, just answer me this: If you had to pick just_ one _thing that you hated the most about this hellhole, what would it be?”_

He had never answered her question, though that did not save his thoughts from straying towards her words. He had pondered over it during the hours as he worked, and he had to admit that that was a difficult question to answer. He was rather certain that he was in no position to feel _hatred_ towards anything, but he would not deny that there were some components of his life that he was not particularly fond of.

In time though, his answer had come to him. He supposed that if he had to pick _one_ factor that bothered him the most about his home, about Tene’mareen, it would most certainly be the heat.

Nothing, good or bad, was ever as intense as the heat—it was brutal, suffocating, and never, ever changed. He knows, however, that that was not where the true problem lied. It was not so much that the heat was unbearable in temperature, or even the fact that it was nearly intolerable in its consistency. Rather, he thought it was the _results_ that the heat led too that made it so bothersome.

It was the heat that caused rivers of sweat to ooze from every pore of his body, soaking his skin and clothes alike, stinging his wounds, and sticking his untamable hair to his face. It was the heat that made his body heavy and lethargic, weighing down on his bones, causing every swing of his arms to be even more strenuous than the last. It was the heat that caused his light-headedness and nausea, forcing him to stop and rest only when he was certain there was no one watching who would punish him.

It was the heat that reminded him that he was several kilometers underground, where the oxygen around him was even more thin and enclosing. It was the heat that reminded him that the only morsels currently sitting in his stomach was a burnt sausage link and a ball of dry, lightly cooked dough that had been given to him at the start of the day, and that any energy his meal provided was long lost by now. It was the heat that made his tongue dry and his throat scratchy, while once again, simultaneously reminding him that the canteen attached to his belt was bone-dry, and would not be refilled until he was finished with his task for the day.

It was quite shitty, he supposed, but he was used to it. Other than that, nothing really bothered him.

He was nearly done with his task. As far as tasks went, the one that occupied him now was not exactly the easiest, but he supposed it was not quite the hardest, either. It was all about rhythm, really. If he followed it, then he would have no problems, and if he focused on it hard enough, it would distract him from the aches in his arms, and his throats desperate need for water and fresh air. ‘Mindless’, he supposed, was a good word to describe it. Just him, the axe and shovel, and the darkness.

And it was very dark. Even he knew no natural light could exist so very far below the ground, but unlike the other prisoners, he did not need to see to work. 

He _never_ needed to see.

The rhythm was an easy one: swing his arms hard, shovel up the remains, breathe deep (that was an important one), and repeat. So, he did just that—he swung his arm down with nearly a painful amount of force, connecting the blade of his axe with the wall of coal. He stilled his breath so his panting would not overshadow the telltale sound of chiseled rock hitting the ground. The crumbles were loud, and if his estimations were correct, it would be just enough to fill up his shovel, which would in turn, fill up his cart, end his task, and have him back just in time for dinner.

The thought of food filled his body with a powerful amount of excitement, prompting him to scoop up the coal and deposit it into the cart with perhaps a bit more vigor than necessary. Clump by clump the pieces of broken rock cleared from the ground, finding home in the large cart behind him. His task was to completely fill three carts, and after many hours—or at least what he assumed was hours—he was almost finished.

When the edge of his shovel brushed against solid ground, he realized he had scrapped up every last piece. He did not bother to hide his relief. He allowed a deep sigh to escape his lips, but not too deep, of course. Too deep and his lethargic muscles would fail, and his strength would flow away with the oxygen leaving his lungs, and while his task was complete, he still was not quite done.

He found it hard not to find solace in his completion. Work did not seem to bother him as much as it did the others, but he still shuddered every time he was assigned to the coal mines. Unfortunately, it was very often—the mines were Division III's claim to fame, after all.

Suddenly, he felt his knees buckle and heard his shovel fall with a clang. His head spun, and the coal-filled cart he rested against was all that kept him from crashing to the ground. His distracting thoughts had caused his strength to leave him after all, it seemed.

His muscles could not quit though, not yet. He still needed to escape this oven that was certainly trying to cook him alive. He needed to last long enough to make it back to the surface, where the heat there was at least breathable. On the surface he could breathe, and drink, and eat, and maybe, just maybe, he could sleep.

That thought revived his strength, enough so that he pushed off of his makeshift crutch with near ease and moved to the back of his vertically lined carts.

He took a deep breath. This was the hardest part, but the _last_ part, and he was ready.

With his feet braced with stability, his hands spread wide apart, and all of the strength in his small body, he pushed against the cart. It took a while, but he eventually heard the groan of the wheels finally beginning to turn, and he threw all his might into keeping them that way. The first cart was not so bad, though the weight of the second and third was nearly unbearable, the rusted and near useless wheels only worsening the ordeal. Still he pushed—the tendons in his body pulling tight in lieu of muscle, sweat dripping down his back, growls falling from his lips—the thoughts of murky water and thin soup driving him. The wheels made awful squeaks of protest as they dragged across the track, and the pace was impossibly slow, but it was moving, and that was all that mattered.

 _Think of how good that water is bound to feel going down your throat,_ he thought. _That soup is going to take all this pain away. Maybe if you’re lucky, there will even be meat in it. Maybe if you’re luckier, it will be rice porridge. You’re never going to find out wasting time down here._

It was his own encouraging thoughts that finally brought him to the end of the track, the thump of his carts bumping into the others in front jolting him back to reality. He fought against the urge to collapse against his cart, knowing that he would never get up again if he did. He ignored the cries of his worn muscles, limping and staggering over to where he knew the guards were waiting. 

Once he was near enough, he clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head. He was silent as they approached him, obediently holding out his leg as they checked the digital bracelet locked around his ankle, before checking his number off on their paper chart. It was required procedure, but still rather pointless—everyone knew who he was.

“Move on,” they told him, so he did. He dragged his heavy feet towards the lift, where he would stand next to the others who had finished just as he had for the next quarter of an hour.

When that time had passed—resulting in only four other prisoners completing their quotas—the guards forced them all back, until there was at least a meter between the two groups. He was small—even smaller than the other prisoners—leaving his mouth pressed tightly into the back of whomever stood in front of him. He did not need consistent air, however, and be ought to be fine until the lift reached the surface. He decided to count to pass the time, just like Neeila taught him. _One. Two. Three. Four_ …

He reached three hundred by the time the lift finally stopped, just as he does nearly every time. Sometimes it changed, depending on which level of the mines he was in, but it typically was somewhere between two hundred to six hundred seconds to reach the surface again. Five minutes, this time. The coal and salt mines were long and very, very deep.

That was only to be expected of course—as stated before, it was what Division III was famous for. Division I had the agriculture; Division II had the aquaculture; Division IV had the plantations; Divisions V and VI had the factories and textiles; Division VII had the lumber; Division VIII had the brick kilns. They had the mines, and _lots_ of them.

Once the door opened, the packed bodies immediately began to slip out of the lift. While all of the other prisoners were as thin and lanky as he was, his short stature and inability to navigate the way whilst so compacted resulted in him being jostled roughly about. Despite his best efforts to keep himself upright, he could not help the ankles that tripped him up, nor could he help colliding into the back of the person in front of him.

He felt the person turn. Next, he heard a snarl. “Get the fuck off of me!”

Then there was a shove, and he was on the ground. He clasped his hands tightly behind his neck and curled his knees until they touched his nose. He felt several misguided kicks to his body, the stumble of someone tripping over him, and the tug from a foot stepping on his hair before it was over. The ordeal had left him a bit disoriented, but he stood enough easily back to his feet.

Suddenly, the subtle smell of bread caught his nose. He did not even have the time to pinpoint the exact location of the aroma before it was gone just as quickly as it had come. Given by the deep laughter of the guards overseeing them, they must have thrown out food, and were amused at the way the prisoners had scrambled after it. He had missed his chance.

That was fine, though; he still had dinner to look forward too.

After a few more moments, the laughing guards finally calmed. He could hear the _thwack_ of the long metal sticks the guards always carried on their persons as they collided with the backs of the other prisoner’s knees. He got the hint to move before one could hit him. He stumbled along with the other prisoners, elated that he would not have to try to sleep on an empty stomach. The slow ones, the ones still working in the mines would be lucky if they got the leftover broth. Even if they did, most of them probably would not survive the night.

It was unfortunate, he supposed, but if they wanted to live to see another day, then they would have worked harder. It was as simple as that; there is no point in wasting sympathy on those who did not deserve it.

* * *

“So, did you think about my question?”

He had.

“Well?”

He was silent for a moment. Then he opened his mouth and let out a hard breath.

“... The air?”

He gave a tiny shake of his head, though she was not far off. He breathed hard again and waved a hand in front of his face.

“The... _heat_!”

He turned back to his food.

“Hmm, that’s a good one. Yes, I imagine working wouldn’t suck so much if I didn’t have a lake’s worth of sweat running down my face from sunrise to sunset.”

She was exaggerating, of course, especially given that there were no such things as a ‘sunrise’ or ‘sunset’ here—at least, not as far as he knew. The tiny crystals embedded in her pale skin would have shimmered properly if there were.

Several moments went by in silence, in which she did not speak. He wanted to know her answer. He chewed his lip and finally gave in, lifting his face until it was level with hers.

He could tell she was smiling, but she said nothing of her victory as she hummed deep in her throat. He imagined a contemplative look in her piercing green eyes under the pile of thick, light yellow hair tied up at the top of her head. She claimed she did not have the heart to cut it, despite how it overheated her. 

He stopped imagining it. He had no right to think about her appearance.

“I guess if I had to pick something I hated the most...” she paused to ponder, then said, “it would be the screaming.”

Ah, he had not even thought of that. He decided that screaming made a close second. He thought, not for the first time, that life would be a lot easier if he were denied hearing as opposed to sight. Few things were more irritating than the screaming. Neeila claimed that it was because his hearing was sensitive like hers, even though he did not share her long, pointed ears. He never really cared for the technicalities—it did not make it any less annoying.

He could not hate it entirely though, as screaming _did_ serve a purpose. Rarely did screams happen with no purpose. Whimpers and groans and whines, perhaps, but never bone-chilling, ear-shattering screams. They were helpful in the sense that he was warned ahead of time about the danger that had _caused_ the screaming and could make an effort to avoid it.

There was screaming now, somewhere off in the distance. Faintly he could hear the pounding stomps of fleeing feet, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the soft pattering of rainfall. An acid storm.

Acid storms were common—some severe, some not so much. He did not necessarily need the sound of screaming to know that one was imminent, because the air always took on a harsh, metallic scent just before the raindrops fell. Acid was bad. Acid ate through your clothing and seeped into your skin, burning away all affected flesh like candle wax. It cared nothing for the agonizing pain it caused as it burned away at a body until even even the bones were mush, nor did it care for the lives it ended.

It was like he had said—nobody screamed for no reason.

He focused on his mess-tin that was not, in fact, filled with rice porridge (a shame, because he liked rice porridge). He tipped the edge against his lip to allow the bland soup to pour down his throat, careful not to let any drip. He listened to Neeila recount her day of collecting corpses to be cremated while he ate. He always listened to her talk about her day, even though the stories were always of the same variety, just a different task. He liked to hear her talk though, so he never complained.

Once he was done with his soup, he licked around the edges and sopped around the inside with a piece of bread he had saved from breakfast. Neeila hurried to catch up, and once both of their tins were completely dry, they returned them, and drank the water they had been given. 

Then, they separated to stand for the evening roll call. Roll call was a long event; thousands of prisoners needed to be accounted for, after all. Several were late, and they had to wait for them. Then a group tried to escape. They were all caught and executed. Then others who had committed crimes earlier in the day were executed as well. Then the guards counted again.

Finally, it ended, and they were all sent back to their barracks for the night.

The day was over.

* * *

... For everyone else, anyway.

He had obediently returned to his barrack along with everyone else. He had laid curled up on the rock ground in the corner, far from the overly packed cots and other bodies that littered the floor. He was so tired, his body practically molding into the flooring as it begged to sleep. Undeterred, he pinched the skin of his arm and gnawed his lip to keep himself awake. He had promised himself that he would practice every six days, and he would not break his routine now, especially considering the progress he hoped to make today.

After several minutes had passed, he assumed that everyone was asleep, or close to being. He rose to his knees and turned to face the wall. He trailed his hand across the bottom until he found the loose slab. He pushed on the wood, each movement against the equally ground emitting a sharp scrap. He did not worry though. If any of the others happened to _not_ be sleeping like the dead, then any sounds they might have heard were drowned out by snoring and crying.

A few more pushes, and the block was moved enough that he could squeeze through. Then, he was out.

His ears were on high alert, as was his sense of smell. He detected nothing, just as he had assumed he wouldn’t, but he still made an effort to stay low as he crept through the barracks. Guards normally did not patrol this early during the resting hours, but rather a bit later, when other prisoners _thought_ that it was prime time to attempt an escape.

Not that he was trying to escape, but he just as equally had no intentions of being caught.

Once he was out of the barracks he continued on, his footsteps light against the stone ground. It was so quiet during this time—no shouted orders; no clacks of shovels and pickaxes; no creak of machines; no scraping of coal; no screaming; absolutely nothing. No matter how many times he snuck out, he was still awed by the complete and utter silence. He was not quite sure how he felt about it.

He continued to shuffle along, his lips mouthing along with each step as the numbers grew into the difficult range. He heard the sound of shifting dirt, and effortlessly stepped over the body convulsing on the ground. Whomever that was must be near dead if they could not have even make it back to their barrack despite being this close. If they did not die naturally, then they certainly would once the guards found them.

He kept moving.

Another hundred footsteps later, he had reached the fence, though he did not really need to count his steps to know. He could practically feel the energy that thrummed through the wires from where he stood—100,000 volts at max currency that stretched for miles and miles, completely enclosing all of Division III.

The walls of the Northwest Cliff should be left from this spot.

He crouched until he was on his knees, crawling along the length of the fence, hidden among the shadows from the eyes of the sentry towers. He doubted anyone was truly patrolling up there just yet—he could not even hear the hum of the watch lights yet—but one could never be too careful.

Two hundred and fifty seconds later, he reached the wall. He would not be climbing it today; instead, he plopped down on his rear. He focused his hearing, trying to find any out-of-place sounds. He heard nothing. He was alone.

He was ready.

He reached out his hand and brushed his bony fingers across the dirt. He passed over several pebbles but deemed them too small. He stretched his fingers out further, until he passed over something more solid. He picked up the stone, and analyzed its weight and shape in his hand. It was medium-sized, oval-shaped and bumpy, and heavy enough that he felt the pressure of it in his hand.

It would do.

Setting the stone back down in front of him, he took a deep breath. Then he leaned forward, braced on his hands, and thought only of the stone. First, he tried to picture it in his mind, which was hard in itself, given that he did not actually know what it looked like, and the other pebbles intercepted his concentration. Once he was certain that his mind was completely fixated on the stone, he pushed deeper, passing the grit and tiny cracks, slipping through the molecules of the inside.

He found the core. Gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow, he focused on the stone, imagining it disconnecting from the ground below. It rose into the air, leveling up to his nose. Excellent.

He was not done yet though. He had mastered levitation ages ago.

_Focus... Focus..._

The rock swooped up high over his head, before swiveling back down. It was bigger than all of the other rocks he had used, but now that he practically had this one mentally mesmerized, he could move it almost effortlessly. Back and forth it swung, going higher and higher into the air. He spun it, released it, and caught it again. He moved it faster, zipping it around like a tiny, round rocket.

After a while, he started to feel sweat drip down his temples. Despite how easy it was to make the stone move, the level of concentration he was putting forth was quickly putting a strain on his mind. He did not stop. Instead he kept the rock going higher into the air, so high that it was probably invisible against the backdrop of the sky. The rock’s signature was starting to become weak, and the center of his forehead was starting to throb, but all this meant was that he was getting better. Who wouldn't feel excitement in the face of improvement?

It was when the bracelet around his ankle suddenly started to vibrate furiously that his concentration nearly broke. He just barely stopped the falling rock from crashing into his head, his hands held up as an extra precaution. He ignored the anklet, and focused back on the rock, intending to complete the goal he had set out for himself.

He thought hard. The whole circumference and its depth lit up in his mind. The stone trembled in the air, every atom quaking in a frenzy. The core glowed bright behind his eyes.

Then it exploded, dust and tiny shards of rock raining down as all that remained.

He collapsed then, his spidery hands gripping his head as he cried out. His temples were impossibly tight, and a fire burned through his frontal lobe. Still, he could not believe he had actually done it. He had been trying for _ages_ to get that right!

He laid on the ground, spent for several minutes, until the anklet started to burn—the demand for his presence was quite pressing, it seemed. 

He staggered onto his knees, but his headache was manageable by now, and would only proceed to get better. Besides, it was tangible proof that his practice was paying off, and all the valuable sleep he was losing was not for waste; he was perfecting the Mind Power.

Of course, it was not _his_ power, and it was not a particularly good one either. It was a _demon’s_ power. Only a monster could enjoy forcefully ripping away control and taking it into their own hands. Only a beast could love having a power like this at their disposal.

But he _was_ the child of a demon; a monster; a beast, and it was the only power he had. Besides, it was not as though he planned to commit any atrocities with it. Even if he wanted too, how much damage could he possibly do with the ability to float palm-sized stones?

He frowned and decided to stop thinking about the tyrant that sired him. There was nothing to gain from such disgusting thoughts.

He remembered the anklet and cursed himself for all of the time he had wasted. He hurried along and prayed they would not notice that he was not in his barrack as he raced towards the grand building.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tene’mareen doesn’t mean anything special. I just made it up.


	3. The Expedition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse, graphic depictions of violence, and sexual advances made on a minor.*

Chapter Two: _The Expedition_

He was halfway to the grand building when he heard a scream. Then there was a cry of, “ _Help_!”

Ignore it.

“Help!” Tears were choking the owner of the voice’s throat. “Help!”

He really should ignore it.

“No! No! _I don’t want to die_!”

His feet were moving before he could stop them. He groaned to himself but did not stop heading towards the distressed creature. He slowed as he came closer, though, as the ground beneath his feet was steadily becoming stickier, and his nose was twitching from the acrid scent that was surrounding him.

A tarpit.

What a stupid creature. Not that he had any right to think that, but still.

“Help! Help!” 

Still screaming. Still stuck. Still stupid, but still in need of help. He did not really care, per say, but leaving someone to die when he possibly could have prevented it was just as bad as killing them himself, wasn’t it? That was a bit too like the _tyrant_ , for his taste.

He moved closer, edging his feet until the sticky consistency was starting to become dangerous for himself. He could not see the creature, but he did not need to, given the screaming and erratic thrashing among the hot goo that restricted them, slowly pulling them down until the tar closed over their face, trapping them, suffocating them, until there was nothing left...

Or not slowly, given the intense, but nonetheless fruitless struggle they were putting up. It was idiotic—everyone knew that the likelihood of sinking and drowning in a tar pit was minimal if you remained still—but he figured they must be too scared to think.

He did not quite know fear, so he couldn’t relate.

“ _HELP ME_!” The words were more of a screech, and even more furious splashing rang through his ears. He figured that must have meant they noticed him. Perhaps he was close enough to reach out and grab them.

Which was what he did, straightening out his tail to keep his balance as he leaned in. Once their hands touched, the creature was thrown into an all new panic, clawing painfully at his wrist all while holding it in a death grip, thrashing as it tried to pull itself free, only resulting in sinking itself further, tugging his body along with it.

He was starting to regret making such a detour, but it was too late to turn back now. Instead, he braced himself, and pulled hard with all the strength he could muster. He was worried a bit when the body only lifted slightly, but what was he expecting? Tar was not something one could use brute strength with—at least, not _his_ brute strength—it was just too sticky.

Of course, its stickiness was not that big of an issue when it could be sliced through. Anything could be sliced through.

With that in mind he focused just as he had on the rock, though this time on the tar. He couldn’t do it—there was no solid form of tar like the rock was, and he couldn’t focus on it with the creature thrashing the way it was. He focused on the body then, before easing his way to the tar that surrounded it. It was still difficult, but if he just focused hard enough for an opening...

His timing was impeccable, slicing through the tar just as he pulled his hardest, popping the creature free from the pit. He sent them soaring through the air before they collided hard with his own body, the both of them crashing to the ground.

He grimaced at the return of his headache and the spinning pain in the back of his head, no doubt already forming a bump. All of the air had been knocked from his lungs, but when he tried to refill them, he was nearly choked by the thick hair covering the majority of his face.

During the time that he was gathering his bearings, he learned two things. The first thing he learned was that the creature had eight pairs of ribs, which were sharp and digging painfully into his own. The other thing he realized was that the creature could possibly be female. This he learned, not from the chest area—female prisoners were too underfed to develop proper breasts—but from the missing body parts he was not feeling on his knee, which was jammed up between the person's legs. He could be wrong though. Not all species were built the same, and he knew better than to make assumptions.

Either way, he needed to go. He was late as it was—the intensity of the stinging of the ankle bracelet confirmation in itself—and it would probably benefit him greatly if he was gone before this person realized just who it was that saved them. All he had to do was wriggle out from under them...

"You little shit!”

He had been halfway on his feet when fingers clenched around the spikes of his hair, nails digging into his skull as he was pulled off his feet and thrown back to the ground. The heel of a still-sticky boot smashed into his nose. He felt warm blood ooze down his face.

“How dare you touch me!” Their foot stomped hard into his stomach. “Don't you ever touch me you—you—you _demon_!” Another stomp. He tasted blood on his tongue.

 _Ungrateful bitch,_ he might have thought, if he were anyone other than who he was. As it were, he could not say her reaction was unwarranted.

“I would rather die than have your filthy hands on me! I’d rather die!" Their boot came down again. Then a second time. Then a third time. Then a... no, not a fourth time.

“ _Halt_!” said a new voice, deep and loud as it grew closer and closer. They were caught.

He could hear the shifting of rocks as his assailant backed away. He imagined their body shaking. He could smell their fear. “S-s-sir, please. I-I was stuck—I didn’t mean to be out past—”

The guard’s whip cracked through the air, slicing through their neck. The creature gurgled, then collapsed—lifeless.

The guard turned on him then, his arm poised to strike the whip again. The blow never came though, as he imagined the guard’s eyes noticing first the light-up bracelet around his ankle, and then—more importantly—his face.

The guard stashed the whip back onto his belt. “Get up.”

He rolled over onto his knees. He coughed hard, hacking up the remaining blood from his throat. He stood to his feet, though stumbled when the guard delivered a hard kick to the small of his back.

“I don’t care who you are; your ‘status’ means nothing to me,” the guard said. “If I catch you out past curfew again, you best believe I’ll slice up your body until there is nothing left. Be grateful that the Warden is summoning you.”

He nodded quickly and hurried on his way.

* * *

One hundred and eighty seconds later, he was at the grand building. The guards before him said nothing, and he said nothing back as they checked his ankle bracelet, confirming that he was indeed supposed to be present here.

Once his check-in was finished, and he was informed of the proper room to go to, he set off. He hobbled as quickly as he could down the empty hall, the pound of his heavy boots against the marble floor echoing loudly through the high walls. He was very late, but at least the room was not far. He may not be able to see the room numbers, but he did not need to know that roughly every seven steps he made he was passing a room, and if there were twenty-four rooms on each side of the hallway...

It was a bit odd, though. The only time he was ever called to the grand building was when the Warden wanted his body, and that always took place in the Warden’s personal chambers. What could they possibly want with him otherwise?

There was no point in pondering over it, he supposed. His job was to listen and follow, and that was what he would do.

It was three steps later when he reached the door. The guard waiting sneered at him. He moved onto his knees, bowing his head to the guard's feet. He was sorry for being late, he really was, but words would not help him. Words never helped him.

Instead, he leaned in close, until his lips pressed against the top of the woman’s boot. He stayed until the gritty pattern was etched onto his skin, before he pulled back, his head bending down again.

He felt the boot he had just kissed come to the back of his neck, forcing his face to the floor. The pressure, however, was light enough to stave off damage.

“Do you know that the Warden chewed me out over your lateness as if it were somehow _my_ fault?” the guard said, her boot flexing against his skin. “You're lucky I don't have time to punish you. You'd be very sorry, then." 

The guard lifted her foot. “Oh well, it will have to wait. Get in there now before I change my mind and indulge myself.”

He felt his heart drop a bit. Just how serious was this meeting?

The boot nudged against his hair. “On your feet, _now_."

He scrambled to comply, darting into the room before she did indeed change her mind.

He tripped in his hurry, skidding against the ground. He heard snickering as he quickly pushed himself upright. He shuffled to the left where all the other prisoners were gathered. All of them were on time. He was almost embarrassed.

The guard from before bowed at her waist. “I apologize for his lateness.”

“No harm done. There are more pressing matters at hand,” said the voice that he would know anywhere. The only one other voice he knew this well was Neeila’s, and hers was nothing like this one. The deep baritone was so engraved in his system that it would sometimes manifest itself as his conscience, a wise and all-knowing guide for his every thought. 

He looked like all the other guards—like _all_ the natives of this planet. He had heard that they are tall, with dark brown hair and skin fashioned like cracked stone. Their race was a bit of an anomaly: they had noses, but no sense of smell, and despite their ears being a tad small, they had impeccable hearing. The hostile elements of their planet did not seem to affect them, nor did the lack of consistently clean oxygen harm their systems. They were considered adults after twenty-two years, and most of them understandably became guards, given that their planet was the most infamous galactic prison in the northern galaxy.

He had never seen a commoner Tena—the ones who lived in the towns, their lives separate from the work camps—so he could not say much about them. He did, however, know that all of the Tena guards, no matter their position, wore the same tight, navy jumpsuit, with a large belt around their waists, holding their guns and whips and any other necessities they may need. The only ones who wore different uniforms were the wardens, who sported dark grey instead of blue, and a hat over their heads with their division's insignia engraved in gold—the same insignia etched on every prisoner’s shirt, right underneath their identification numbers. Division III's insignia was a jewel. Supposedly it represented the treasures of the mines, though as far as he knew the most abundant material was plain old coal.

Of course, clothing was not the only thing that set apart the wardens from the guards. He did not know much about the wardens from other divisions, but he knew _his_ better than anyone.

His warden was not stoic, nor was he emotionless. He did not stand in organized lines or check his posture to make sure it was perfectly aligned. The Warden, Ziloh, was very emotional, glee and anger fluctuating his moods like an indecisive toddler. He stood in no lines—he made them. He lived by no rules—he enforced them. ‘Warden’ was not a powerful enough term to accurately describe him. He was a king, a sovereign power that ruled the entirety of the third Division, whose power would pass to his son, and then would have passed to his granddaughter were she not already dead.

As far as Division III went, Ziloh was the highest, and so long as he was alive, he would always be.

“We’ve wasted enough time. Clean them,” the Warden ordered. “Then load them onto the ship. Now. Do not keep me waiting.”

He could practically hear the questions swarming through the minds of the other prisoners. _What does he mean? Where is he taking us? Are we being tricked? Are we going to die?_

He was wondering the same things—or well, perhaps not the last one. He doubted that they were finished with him, and even if they were, would they not have made his execution more... extravagant?

Or perhaps it was going to be so monumental that it could not even be contained on this planet. Maybe they would leave him floating out in space until his body gave out. Maybe they would launch him into the sun. That would surely be grand.

"Attention!"

All thoughts and wandering eyes ceased.

"The task you have all just been assigned is to be completed on another planet. The mission is too important to relay through your anklet messenger."

So, an intergalactic mission. He had heard of them. They were fairly simple: prisoners of certain talents were selected to be transported off planet for whatever job needed to be done, and sooner or later they were brought back home. He was not quite sure what kind of jobs were done off planet exactly, but they must be better than anything assigned here, hence why the others wanted to go on them so badly. Regardless of the glorified tales of off-planet labor, he never had much a desire for them. He hardly had the right to the labor he did now, how could he dare hope for something better?

Which then brought up the question: why was he permitted now? What could possibly be so important for him to do that they could not pick anyone else among the millions of prisoners for it? It was not if he had some special power that no one else could do. There was his mind power, of course, but that was his secret. What else could they need him for?

“The task you are to complete is to retrieve seven balls,” said a guard, most likely the one in control just under the Warden. “Each ball is orange and numbered one to seven with red stars. That is all the physical description that will be given.

“The eleven of you have been selected for this mission due to reports of good behavior, your scavenger-type body, your low needs of oxygen, and your past history of efficiency. It is unknown where the balls are located at this time, and you are being given several hours to discover their whereabouts. No more time will be permitted. No failure will be accepted.”

“However,” the Warden cut in, “if the balls are retrieved before the end of the day has passed, the lot of you will be rewarded handsomely. I believe you will find it to your liking.”

He could feel all of the heads around him turn, even more intrigued despite their confusion.

“If you all are successful, all charges against you will be dropped, and you will be permitted to live out the rest of your lives in freedom.”

And of course, the group was shocked, but he was not. He had already known what was going to be said. What else could be a worthwhile enough reward aside from freedom? He knew that internally, the other prisoners had known the same thing, but refused to let themselves hope for something that would never happen. He had no such qualms clouding his sense of reason. He had no hopes, and he did not need them. Waiting and wishing for falsities that would never logically come his way was pointless. 

He supposed that was one of the things he and Neeila disagreed on. Her whole life was dependent on her hopes: hopes for more food, hopes for less work, hope that her mother would come back, hope that her brother would not leave too, hope that one day the life she lived would finally end and the one she left behind would return. 

His life only needed his sense of realism. Taking his surroundings for how they were, doing as he was told just as he was told to do it—he did not need anything else to keep living.

And it was his sense of realism that was telling him this ‘freedom’ was not applying to him, at least not in the same way. They were not done with him; _Ziloh_ was not done with him. Not until the moment he drew his final breath would they be done with him.

He tightened his nails in the fabric of his large pants, dipped his head even lower, and reminded himself to get over it.

It seemed that the Warden was not done, and he continued with a candy sweet smile, "Now, it goes without saying that absolutely no form of disobedience will be tolerated, and any sign of misbehavior will be dealt with accordingly. Despite the lot of you possessing ideal traits and the importance of this mission, it is still a privilege—a very large one at that. All of your lives are more meaningless to me than the vermin that crawl beneath my boots, and I will not hesitate to take them from you.

"Of course, if you succeed," the Warden said brightly, as if a deal-breaker was necessary, "your freedom is a guarantee. We cannot return you to your respective planets of course, but you can and will be transported to the civilian portion of Division III to do as you please, and your file will be completely destroyed."

 _It is a lie_ , he thought. Rewards served no function for the guards when they had punishments. Every prisoner would do the work to the best of their ability to avoid a bad consequence. A reward was like a favor, and the guards did not indulge in favors, ever.

Mind games, that had to be it. What else could it be? It would explain why they would risk taking him off the planet, if not to kill him. He was small, yes, and was fast with abnormally acute senses, but he was not the only one, so why else would he be allowed to leave?

He wanted to ask.

He did not of course. He hated mind games but asking questions might be enough to change their minds about sparing him. Mind games were survivable, death was not.

He followed the guards’ instructions and stripped away his grimy clothes. Then he was led into a cubicle, where a pounding stream of hot water burned over his dirty skin and open sores and washed away the top layer of grunge from his thick hair.

_What was Earth like?_

Then he was taken to the infirmary, where he was sat on a rough cot. He held back winces as they stitched his open wounds closed. He held still as they rubbed salve onto his bruises and burns, their hands unforgiving on his skin as they joked cruelly about how they would need to burn them after touching him.

His body seemed to have taken over for his unresponsive mind as he pulled on the new set of clothing: a clean button-down top, trousers that were the right length, and new, sturdy boots that fit firmly over his feet—so different from his previous ones with holes and worn soles. His movements were mechanical as he tucked the end of the shirt into his waistband, and the pant-legs into the boots.

_He was leaving._

Unless it was a mind game.

It took him a moment to register that someone was standing behind him. His heart began to pound as he felt the cold metal of a blade graze against the side his face. It was only there for a second though, pulling against the damp fabric tied tightly around his eyes, slicing it away.

He calmed. Of course, they would need to use a blade—the knot was tight and crusted over; they would never be unable to untie it.

Still, he was uneasy as each second without a blindfold ticked past. The skin that was normally covered by the cloth was raw, blood flowing back at a burning speed, blisters no doubt littering all over the top of his face. His eyes, even though they were scrunched shut, were practically blinded by the light he was never used to seeing without a cover over his eyelids. It made him wonder just how painful it would be if he actually opened his eyes.

He didn't, and instead welcomed the fresh cloth that was being pulled over his eyes. The fabric rubbed roughly against his tender skin, and the tightly made knot caught a few strands of his hair, and yet all he felt was relief.

That was all of the confirmation he needed to know that this was not a mind game. Even for a cruel trick, they would not risk taking off his blindfold for any circumstances. This mission _had_ to be real.

Despite the aches from the rough treatments, his refreshed body felt weightless as he followed behind the ten other prisoners who shuffled along in front of him. His mind was still a bit numb, but his heart was pounding so hard that his whole body shook with each beat. Every step he took with the heavy boots brought him closer to the spaceship. It was only a matter of time before he was inside; it was only a matter of time before he was blasting through the thick, polluted atmosphere; it was only a matter of time before he was gone.

 _He was leaving. He was_ really _leaving._

He choked as a hand clenched onto his collar and pulled him back. His feet scrambled across the ground, trying to regain his balance. He started to panic, because he _knew_ it was all a lie: the healing, the fresh clothing, the new blindfold, all of it. He was not going anywhere. He knew better than to believe in foolish dreams like this.

The hand holding onto his shirt pulled hard, forcing his face close to his captor kneeling barely an inch away from him. He closed his mouth, but he was not quick enough to miss inhaling the hot, rank breath that nearly made him gag.

"Do not think you are any less of my precious little thing that you've always been," the Warden said, because there was no one else who would say such a thing to him.

The Warden's hand released his collar, only to find itself embedded in his hair. "I wish I could tell you that the only reason I am allowing you to join is because I’d miss having my bed warmed otherwise, but that would not be entirely true."

The nails in his spiky hair dug deep, scratching hard on his scalp. "You should know that I do have every intention of freeing you. However, I believe it goes without saying that your freedom will be a bit... different from the others’."

Yes, he had imagined as much.

He could hear the Warden's smile in his voice. "You understand that we won’t have much need for you once that _pest_ is gone. I’m sure the rest of the universe will be quite happy to see you die alongside of him."

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps the galaxy would feel that thirteen years of imprisonment was justice well served.

"Still, as wonderful as it will be to finally see you breathe your last worthless breath, it would still be such a... waste." The Warden's voice dropped to a tender tone. "I hope you don't think I've run out of new ideas and activities for my little Ice-jin boy. There is still so much I can do with you; so many bones I haven't broken; so many places I haven't yet touched."

He was not too sure about that last one. He could not imagine any place on his body that the Warden had not already made his.

"I believe I’ll give you a different kind of reward, one that I will much enjoy.”

The Warden pulled tight on his hair, forcing his head back as he buried his face in his neck. The Warden inhaled sharply, before piercing his skin with his teeth. He pulled away with a bloody smirk. “And I'm sure you would too. Wouldn't you like that? No longer having to slave away with the rest of the scum? Your only purpose would be to keep me satisfied. To be a slave only to _me_. To be my Angel forever. Behave yourself, and I will keep you alive. You don't have to die, not when there is still use to be made of you.”

Then the Warden pinched his cheeks with one hand, forcing his mouth open to accept the rough tongue that jammed between his lips. The Warden growled against his mouth, his tongue thrusting until there was no place left untouched.

He pulled away with a hum. “You’re mine, Chill. _All mine_.”

The Warden pushed him away, sending him stumbling off-balance until his swishing, bare tail saves him. He hurried to catch up with the other inmates, who were already walking up the bridge that led onto the ship. They checked his anklet once more, his title flashing brightly on the tiny screen.

_D3-24455. Chill, of Emperor Frieza, of Prince Vegeta._

The device dinged, and he was granted acceptance. He moved along again, his body thrumming so badly his teeth were chattering. He heard the loud clang of the bridge shutting.

" _Shut up_ ," he heard the male prisoner in front of him hiss, and he tried, he really did, but his body would just not stop shaking.

This was happening. This was _really_ happening.

The Warden’s promise rang in his ears, and as unpleasant as it was, it still mattered little. He was _leaving_. Even if it was only for a few days, he was going to experience something that other prisoners only dreamed about. 

Chill was hated across the stars. He embodied the most disgusting, vile, murderous being who once plagued the galaxy, who let nothing good that crossed his path survive. Chill was the one who had been chosen to pay for his crimes; he was the one still had yet to repay the debt; he was the one with a special place in hell reserved just for him right next to his tyrant of a father, alongside all of the other stains of the universe. 

He did not deserve this, and yet here he was.

The Warden’s promise ate at him, yes, because nothing scared him more than the idea of being confined to the Warden's bedchambers for the rest of his life. Even that did not matter, though. His future looked grim, but he would always have this memory to look back on, wouldn't he?

He was going on _vacation_ , and that made just about everything after worth it.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be said that I originally made this story before I learned of the existence of Frieza’s ancestor, Chilled. I did not intend to name my OC after him.
> 
> 24455 is how you would type out ‘CHILL’ on an old texting keyboard.


	4. The Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse, graphic depictions of violence, and implied rape of a minor.*

Chapter Three: _The Master_

“So,” Bulma said, holding up two dresses that, for all intents and purposes, were the exact same. “Maroon, or burgundy?”

Vegeta turned back to his breakfast.

“Come on, Vegeta! I have a very important meeting today and I could really use your advice here. You don’t want your wife to look like a harlot in front of the entire board of directors, do you? The wrong color dress could have that effect, you know.”

Vegeta stuffed a hard-boiled egg into his mouth.

“Fine! Be that way, jerk!” She shrilled, before stomping over to the line of prepared food. She huffed and grumbled to herself as she filled her plate, and for not the first time, Vegeta wondered how someone could bear to be so animated this early in the morning.

“Good morning,” their son said through a yawn as he shuffled into the room, rubbing one of his eyes with his tiny fist.

“Trunks which is better: maroon or burgundy?” Bulma presented the dresses to him.

Trunks did not miss a beat. “That one,” he answered with a point.

“Really? I thought the maroon one was better...” Bulma trailed off, contemplating both of the dresses.

“Eat,” Vegeta said.

She absently took a bite of her food, as she tore the tag off the maroon dress. Trunks tried to stifle his laughter and failed, as children naturally did. Vegeta wasn't sure what it was he thought was funny. He went back to his plate.

It was Trunks who filled the room with noise this time, as he often did every morning. He was going through a new phase in which he obsessed over “ _drones_ ”. Vegeta had absolutely no idea what that word meant regarding a child’s plaything, but from what he gathered from Trunks’ chatter was that drones flew in the sky and could be controlled by remotes and had tiny cameras in them to show what the drone could see and that most people had to buy theirs but Trunks was smart enough to _build_ his own from scratch and that the parts were supposed to arrive today and he had never been more excited for anything else in his entire _life_ and—

Vegeta stood to his feet and walked towards the window on the other side of the room, leaving an army of empty plates in his wake. He had unlatched the window when Bulma cleared her throat pointedly.

Vegeta regarded the two of them. Trunks’ mouth was open, as if he were about to speak. Eventually, his mouth slid shut, and turned back to his breakfast. Bulma gave her son a soft look that Vegeta could not read, before shooting her husband a sharp glare.

Vegeta kicked off the windowsill and flew off towards the foggy, grey sky.

Their section of Earth was approaching its cold season. The leaves on the trees had traded their rich green color for a vibrant red, and his breath ghosted out in front of him with each exhale. The humans below seemed unbothered by the chill, trotting around energetically as they were, swamped in thick hoodies and hats that hugged their ears. Bulma had expressed her surprise the other day at how lively the city was. She claimed that they were in the ‘awkward phase’ of the season, where the days were just as unpredictably hot as they were freezing, and most people were unsure when to switch out their seasonal clothes.

Vegeta had very little clue what she had been rambling about. Earth’s climate had never bothered him in a profound enough manner for him to care.

It did not bother him now even, soaring higher and higher until the buildings faded, and the clouds encased his body until he was invisible to the eyes below. He could still feel them, though. He could feel the mass of bodies congregated beneath him, just as he could feel his energy thrumming through his veins and warming his blood. He could feel his lungs expanding for deeper breaths, combating against the thin, brittle air. He could feel the slightest bit of chill burrowing in the tips of his toes.

It felt calm up here. Rarely did Vegeta put much value in that word, but even he could appreciate a peaceful morning. It certainly inspired the mind to think.

Think. Contemplate. Brood. The concept was exceptionally strange, and yet it seemed that Vegeta was doing a whole lot of it as of late. Or at least, that was what he assumed this was—this desire to fly where he could barely see but could still feel, alone with nothing but the howl of air and his own thoughts to accompany him.

Long ago, back when he had no wife—could hardly even remember the woman’s full name—and Trunks was not even a twinkle in his eye yet, he had done this very thing every morning for hours. He had had a purpose then. That purpose had been to _learn_. 

He had been overconfident, yes, and cocky to boot, but a fool he was not. This planet was strange and vast, and a place he had intended to spend three straight years of his life at the time. He refused to spend those three years completely blind to his surroundings and the enemies that he could possibly encounter. So, whenever he was not training, he was traveling. He kept mainly to the skies, shielding his body in the clouds but giving himself free view to everything below, and he observed.

During his observations, he learned that the humans in this part of the world did not have a monarchy, but rather elected officials. He learned that that was not the case everywhere. He learned that the humans had a surplus of weapons, used by soldiers and civilians alike. He learned that their plants were mostly harmless, as were their animals. He learned that humans _liked_ animals, and that they enjoyed dragging around their domesticated beasts like unruly, yet beloved children. He learned that as the seasons changed, human behavior changed with it. He learned that humans celebrated often. He learned that humans liked alcohol so much they overindulged in it often on certain nights, stumbling drunkenly through the streets, uncaring of how vulnerable it made them. He learned that humans were emotional. He learned that humans looked and behaved entirely differently the further he traveled. He learned that humans were diverse, impulsive, and very, very weak.

Once he finished his observations, he returned to his training, well-informed, but overall unimpressed with his findings.

Several years, a wife, a child, a death, and a resurrection later, here he was once again. However, he had no interest in observing this time around. What was there to observe? Humans, when it came down to it, were very predictable creatures. They behaved the same ways every time he bothered to pay attention. It got old very fast.

So why was he here? That was a good question. Never in his life had he done something like this. Isolate without purpose, that is. Even before, when he frequently abandoned Nappa and Raditz, or when he stole Bulma’s ship and left this planet, it all had purpose. The best way to improve was to have no distractions, after all, and every ounce of newly gained strength was worth the attachments he left behind.

And yet he was improving nothing out here, roaming aimlessly as he did most mornings lately. He had no purpose, no goal, so surely, he must be out here simply to think. Or to contemplate. Or to brood.

He thought about a lot of things. He thought about his family. He thought about his allies. He thought about how the person he saw in the mirror was not the same person he would have saw years ago. _Months_ ago, even.

He thought about how all those things made him _feel_.

It was ridiculous. Perhaps the most ridiculous thing he had ever done.

Vegeta, for the better part of his life, did not feel much in the way of emotions. He felt anger, of course, felt it simmer beneath his skin like water in a hot pot, waiting to inevitably overflow and spill out in a boiling mess of rage. He felt joy as well—felt the satisfaction that filled his chest when he grew in strength, or when he cut down someone who was particularly strong or particularly annoying. Irritation, disgust, even the occasional bout of fear was not foreign to him either. It was not hard to manage these fallacies. He had long since mastered his body. He knew when he could scrunch his nose at corpses that laid at his feet, or when to still the tremors that ran through his limbs. Of course, just because he could mask his reactions, did not mean he was exempt from them. He was mortal just like anyone else, after all. He could mask the feelings, but that did not mean they were nonexistent.

Now, somehow, they existed in a... different way. The same emotions were within him, and yet the way he felt them was like he had never had before. There were even new things he felt, the kind of emotions that he did not know how to put into words. Never in his life had Vegeta felt so out of his depth, and yet he had no answer as to _why_.

All this thinking, and yet the only thing he managed was to become even more confused.

Perhaps that was what caring about things did to a man. He wouldn’t know; he had never cared about anything in his life before. Not in any material sense, at least. Obviously, he cared about his strength, and defeating his oppressors, and other goals he had set out for himself during his life, but beyond that? Had he ever cared about something _real_ —something he could see, something he could touch with his own two hands? No, he did not think he ever had. Perhaps he had cared about his father once, but that was so long ago he would not even recall the man’s face if it were not so like his own.

Raditz and Nappa were comrades by necessity. They were devoted to him in every way, but even he knew that his royal status had little to do with it. He had been a child so naturally Nappa gained some sort of familial attachment to him. Raditz had not been that much older than him, and perhaps that was why he—a boy too proud to admit he mourned his parents and long-lost baby brother—was fond of him as well. The two of them hung onto his words as if each one was a hand-crafted gift. They probably would have followed him to the ends of the universe had he asked it of them.

Vegeta could never muster up that level of devotion in return. He had not been good to them at all, really. He would just as soon as fight alongside them as he would break their bones, and yet they remained loyal to him. There was never anyone else as constant in his life as they were, and he did not even miss them.

No, there had never been anything like this before. He never had _needs_ like this. The need to see two sets of bright blue eyes every morning. The need to hear a childishly joyful laugh. The need to count every heartbeat of his wife while she slept. The need to _protect_.

He knew the word for _that_ need, at least. He was not so emotionally inept as that. Now as far as expressiveness went—

"Yo, Vegeta!"

And wasn’t that another can of worms entirely?

Vegeta was reluctant to turn around (and when exactly had he landed, anyway?), but he knew there was no point in trying to ignore him. Kakarot was like an itch that irritated you relentlessly until you finally gave in and scratched it.

Vegeta turned on his heel and there he was, standing tall with his hands on his hips and his lips in a big, idiotic grin.

Of all people, Kakarot was not someone he ever thought he would have to seriously contemplate. He had been on his mind, of course, _monopolized_ it even, so long ago. Still, his thoughts of him were rather simplistic. Become stronger than Kakarot. Defeat Kakarot. Kill Kakarot. There was very little variation between those thoughts.

Then Kakarot died, and after the initial sting of failure that was becoming far too familiar, he had not given the other saiyan much thought. What purpose would it have done? He was dead—there was no point in dwelling on a man he would never get the chance to properly face again.

And yet, here they were.

“Kakarot,” he acknowledged.

“What are you doing out here?”

Vegeta glanced at the forest backdrop of tall oak trees behind Kakarot’s unruly head. He would concede that that was perhaps a fair question.

"A better question,” he said in lieu of answer, “would be: what are _you_ doing out here?”

“Vegeta,” the fool complained, foolishly. “You can’t answer my question with the same exact question!”

Vegeta arched his brow, effectively sharing that he was quickly losing patience.

Kakarot’s cheery smile relit his face. "Well, I was bored, and since your location was on the way to where I was heading—"

"The middle of nowhere was where you were heading? You mean to say that you were following me."

"I wouldn't say ‘following’. Maybe... ‘ _seeking’_ out..."

Vegeta shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want?”

“Well I was wondering if maybe you wanted to spar for a bit?”

And that was their relationship. Or whatever this was that Kakarot was trying to initiate with him. This would be the fifth time that Kakarot had sought him out, always with the same request.

Vegeta denied him every single time.

Vegeta opened his mouth, another refusal ready to spill from his tongue. He wondered if perhaps there was truly something wrong with the other man’s head, that he could not understand clearly that his presence was unwanted; that he could not differentiate respect from fondness; that he could not see that Vegeta had no interest in becoming another figure in his gaggle of infuriating companions; that—

His internal monologue was interrupted by a resounding _boom_ from the sky.

Both of their heads tip upward. There, shining like a beacon in the clear, blue sky (just how far from his home _was_ he?) was the dark object that had broken the sound barrier.

“What do you think that is, Vegeta?” Kakarot asked, the goofy quality of his face having yet to melt away even amongst his confusion.

It could have been space debris. It was small, and non-descript from this distance so that possibility was not outlandish. Yet he knew that a scrap of debris would not fall that way. Debris had no control, and typically burned until there was hardly anything left to hit the surface. Yet this dark spot in the sky drifted downward in a very decisive, vertical line, its pace perfectly even and calculated... 

It was not falling. It was _descending_.

Vegeta hopped off his feet and sped towards the UFO.

He heard Kakarot calling, “Hey, wait!” before leaping into the air as well, and following closely after him.

* * *

Chill had ugly hands.

He did not truly know what they looked like of course—the few times he had risked using his sight, his eyes were typically on things other than the intricacies of his body. He could feel though, and he could imagine. He could feel that they were brittle and thin. He imagined that they were sickly pale. He could feel that they were veiny. He imagined those veins were dark like ink on a page. He could feel where he was missing nails (a guard had torn them off not too long ago). He imagined that they were covered in scars.

He did not make a habit of conjuring mental images of his hands, but with nothing else stable to settle his mind on, he figured it was his safest option. He imagined at this particular moment they looked terrible, even more pathetic than usual as they trembled around the clothing he was pulling back onto his body.

First came the shirt. The neck of the fabric squeezed his head uncomfortably, and it was only after he had pulled it all the way on that he realize he had forgotten to unbutton it.

What a stupid thing to forget, he thought.

Despite the struggle to get the collar over his head, the shirt was too large for him. It hid the bite marks and bruises on his torso but did no such service for the rashes on the skin of his neck and the dark hickeys sprinkled around his collarbone.

The trousers were harder, even though they should not have been. They were pooled around his ankles, and his fingers shook violently as he tugged the pants up his burning, slick thighs. It was even more of a struggle trying to maneuver his broken tail into the makeshift hole in the back of the trousers. He had already made work of resetting the tiny bones back into their proper places as best he could, but the appendage was still tender. Once that was through, he pulled his knobby knees up against his chest and hugged them tight, still feeling just as naked as before.

He did not like it when the Warden did that to him.

He smacked a hand hard against his temple, and the fact that he could hardly feel the pain probably should have worried him, but it did not. He knew better than to think that way.

He bit down on the whimper resting on his tongue. It would not help. Nothing would help. The only remedy for the infirmity brewing inside of him was patience. He had to wait for the lingering pain to pass, had to wait for the sickness to pass, and then he would be soothed. It was not a hard task—he knew how to have logical thoughts. _Logically_ , the burning throughout his whole body would fade as per usual. _Logically_ , the shivers that quaked his body would subside. _Logically_ , the shame burning in his gut would go away as it always did.

 _Logically_ , he had no reason to feel like this every _damn time_.

 _Breathe,_ he heard Neeila’s voice say. He took in a breath. He released it.

He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. _He was fine_. He was honored, really, that the Warden would bless him with such attention.

Suddenly he felt like choking.

 _Breathe, Chill,_ Neeila’s voice said insistently, smooth like cotton and sweet like the clovers that sometimes grew in the dirt around the barracks. Chill followed her directions with more care.

(Herio, Neeila’s older brother, had said more than once that he thought Chill was insane. He wondered how much farther Herio’s opinion of him would fall if he learned that the illusion of his precious _sorellina’s_ voice in Chill’s head was often the only thing holding him together.)

Several minutes passed. This time, when he told himself he was fine, it was much easier to believe.

And he really _was_ fine. It was... unpleasant, but nothing he had not already experienced, and really, it could be worse. He could be trapped below the deck with the other prisoners, crammed together like cattle in a pen, with no room to move and no air to breathe other than the hot breath of the other’s around him.

Yes, his hips ached, and his hands still would not stop shaking, but he had a smooth floor to sleep on and clean air in his lungs, and that had to count for something.

And just like that he remembered—he was _here_.

He felt his body shake for an all new reason. Anticipation, perhaps? Maybe nervousness? He could not really say. He had no idea what to feel really. How was one supposed to react to an experience like this?

He could certainly say that he was curious. What did this new planet look like? Would it be hot there, or cold? What did their people smell like? How would their language sound to his ears?

There was no telling what was waiting for him on the other side. He had the sudden, powerful desire to _know_. How much longer would he have to wait until he found out?

_They might recognize you._

He felt that nauseous feeling bubbling in his stomach again.

He heard a grunt and remembered that he was not alone. His ears follow the clack and shuffle of boots stomping against the hard, metallic floor. Then he heard the groan of a chair being sat in and immediately scurried over to sit by his Master’s feet.

He was not the Warden now. Behind these doors, he was _Master_.

His Master grunted again as he rolled together a tobacco wrap and a line of finely ground herbs. Once it was packed together, he quickly struck the blunt end against the arm of his chair, sparking a flame. Moments later, Chill's nose was filled with the bitter scent of smoke. He hurried onto his knees and held his hands out, waiting to catch the ashes as they fell. The ashes were hot but cooled quickly against his palms.

Several minutes passed in silence. Finally, just as the room had begun to adopt a healthy layer of smoke, his Master finished. There was no ash tray or waste bin, so Chill stuck out his tongue, licked up the pile in his hand, and swallowed. It was bitter and awful.

His Master was pleased, however. He threaded a hand through the spikes of Chill’s hair, and he shuddered underneath it. Several seconds passed in silence, nothing but Chill’s stifled coughs from the smoke and the soft scratch of his Master’s fingers against his scalp.

“The making of history begins on this day,” his Master finally said.

Chill, dropped his forehead gently to his right knee.

“By the end of this day, I shall hold the power of the universe in my arms. I do not think there is anyone else in the world who could make that claim, do you? Not even your tyrant papa could have said that.”

Chill brushed his hands against the fabric covering his Master’s leg.

“I will have the power to truly rid the universe of that other disgusting pest. Never again will he touch me. Never again will he touch _you_. That makes you happy, doesn’t it, my Angel?”

Chill curled his fingers tightly in the cloth. That _would_ make him happy.

“By the end of this day, I will be the highest there is. It will be my name that children give praise too at their bedsides. It will be my name that my people will beg to for comfort. I will be higher than King Hikso. I will be higher than God. Do I not deserve to be rewarded for that?”

Chill hastened to undo the clasp of his trousers, and pulled out what was waiting inside.

* * *

Perhaps an hour later, the sticky sensation and bitter flavor had long since been washed away by the nutriments he had been given. The water had been stale and lukewarm, but plentiful. The soup on the other hand had been an almost pleasant surprise. The coarsely ground, boiled corn kernels had slid down his throat like sludge, but it had been warm, and _very_ thick. He had gobbled it all down, licked the bowl, then around his mouth, and then the floor to make sure he had missed none of the rarely rich meal.

In the end, it made his stomach gurgle uncomfortably, but he could not remember the last time he felt this _energized_. He supposed it was fitting, however. If this mission was as important as the Warden said it was, it would not do to have those essential to its success faltering from exhaustion.

After he had finished his meal and passed his dishes into a steward’s elderly hands, he had been led out of the Warden’s chambers. He would not have really needed the assistance—the smell of congregated bodies was more than enough of a guide for him.

The room was silent as he slipped inside. He moved across the back wall, until he reached the corner. He curled up within himself on the floor. The room was warm, and the smell of his own and others’ sweat tickled at his nose. It was, all things considered, a vast improvement to normal conditions.

He played idly with the strings of his boots while he waited, feeling just the slightest bit overwhelmed. It was all just so hard to grasp. He was truly, physically here. He was here, crouched on the first spaceship he had ever been on, moments away from landing somewhere new, somewhere millions of miles away from the mines and the fields and the barracks and the fences.

How could reality be so undeniably real and yet seem so false at the same time?

There was a loud clunk, then another, and then one more. The guards had assumed formation, and it was time to listen.

“Attention!” The Warden called, and all heads snapped to him. “We have arrived on Planet Earth.”

There was no excited muttering or chattering, but the Warden’s face brightened as if there was.

“We are to be exiting this ship in approximately ten minutes, and once we are grounded, we will immediately commence our search of the dragon balls. We will split into two separate groups. One group shall be tasked with recovering three of the assets, and the other will be responsible for four. Each group must complete the mission before the sun is in the center of the sky. That is approximately four hours. This planet is large, but no excuses will be tolerated.”

A click. “Before you are images of the seven assets...”

Chill already knew what their appearance entailed, whispered in his ear while his Master ran his hands up and down his spine: Orange balls, red stars.

Not that it mattered either way to him, but he knew.

The Warden’s boots were loud as he strode across the floor. “The utmost and absolute behavior is expected. Though I cannot imagine why I would expect anything less. I implore you all to remember that your freedom is what hangs in the balan—"

Chill was not the only one who jumped at the sudden, nearly hysterical cry from a guard, “Sir! Sir, you must look!”

The Warden growled, his easy demeanor sliding away as he turned to face the offending guard. “I hope, Officer Vuuol, that you did not just interrupt me for any reason that is less than life-threatening.”

“I’m afraid it might be so, sir,” the officer replied, his gaze still glued to the window in utter horror.

The Warden narrowed his eyes, stomping his feet harshly against the flooring as he stormed towards the window. He roughly shoved the frozen stiff guard away before glaring out the glass. He did not have much of a reaction at first, simply squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if he were thinking, as if he were trying to remember...

"Prince Vegeta!"

There was commotion then, guards ungracefully abandoning their posts to race to the windows, trying to get a glimpse of truth for themselves. The prisoners around him were all muttering as loudly as they dared, some in disbelief, some in question, and others who were explaining to the ones in question just who exactly Prince Vegeta was.

It was only seconds later, that every eye sitting on the floor was turned back and staring at him. Chill did not notice the attention. Chill did not notice much of anything at all.

Prince Vegeta. He knew that name of course. If there was ever a name he would know, it would always be that one. Even still...

“But, sir,” another guard spoke, her voice rough and disbelieving. “It couldn’t be. All records state that Prince Vegeta died over twelve years ago.” Her fingers tapped against the small screen before her in efforts to prove her point. “He perished along with all of the natives of Planet Namek when it exploded. Zero percent chance of survival. The only pod reported to have escaped before the explosion landed on Planet Yardrat, and all sources describe the man as unrecognizable and unregistered by any form of government or Galactic Organization. There are no true saiyans left in existence.”

The Warden turned his narrowed eyes onto her, freezing her in her place. “Were you under the impression that I did not know that?”

She shot up straight, her stone-faced clearing to resemble some sense of a proper guard’s dignity. “Of course not, sir. I was just merely sharing all known knowledge of the Saiyan Prince. If our documents are correct, then there is no possible way it could be him. Could he possibly be a relative, or an earthling that looks similarly to him? I noticed that a signature saiyan tail is missing, and his clothing is too tight for such an extremity to be hidden underneath.”

Saiyan. The Saiyan Prince Vegeta...

“No,” the Warden shook his head, peering out the window once more. “Vegeta has no living relatives aside from his disinherited brother. And I _know_ what Vegeta looks like. It is most definitely him. I am not wrong.”

“But, sir—”

“Remind me why we are here, Officer Weein.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “For the dragon balls, sir.”

“And these dragon balls can grant any wish that is requested of them, yes?”

“Yes sir.”

“So is it safe to assume that resurrection from the dead is included in ‘ _any wish_ ’. Am I wrong?”

Officer Weein faltered. “Ah, well I suppose, sir, but why would the earthlings wish him back?”

“That’s not something I can answer, but that is definitely him.” The Warden’s eyes hardened, studying the man below. “Yes, that’s him. That hair, those eyes... that is certainly him. He’s not that nineteen-year-old brat who shat all over my hospitality anymore, but that is Vegeta.”

A smile suddenly broke over the Warden’s face. “Dear me has he grown! He doesn’t seem as cold as I remember. Do you see all that curiosity shining so freely on his face? He seems to have lost his touch, don’t you think?”

“Ah, yes, uh, I suppose, sir.”

"Fucking shut up, would ya? Your noise is gonna get us all in trouble!" A prisoner hissed, barring his teeth in Chill's direction. 

Noise? Was he making noise? He tried to think, but his mind would not listen. He realized that his body would not listen either. He felt... detached? Yes, detached, like the threads that held him to his bones and skin had been abruptly severed. Was he in shock? Perhaps his heart was giving out? No, of course not. He was sure that near-death would be a bit more painful than whatever this was. Still, how could he stop hyperventilating when he did not even know how he was doing it?

He did not know. _He did not know._ He did not know anything. Nothing was making sense. Nothing was making _sense_.

“—wearing earthling garbs, no doubt. Do you think he has been domesticated? That could explain the absence of a tail. The one next to him has no tail either, but they have similar features. Perhaps he is a saiyan as well?”

“What are our orders, sir?” a different guard spoke up. “If it is true that Vegeta was resurrected from the dead, then it is possible that his comrades Nappa and Raditz were as well. We would have four, potentially hostile saiyans to deal with. If I may suggest, I believe we should postpone the mission. We could return with more officers—"

“No,” the Warden cut him off. “There is no amount of guards we could send that would be able to subdue the Prince of all Saiyans, never mind the other three.”

“Then what are we do to do, sir—”

“You will do as I tell you, of course,” the Warden said brightly as he turned and walked away from the window. “We have no reason to fear Vegeta just yet. He has no reason to harm me. You could almost say we are old friends, he and I.”

“Sir, that might be a bit of a bold assumption to bet on...”

The smile slid off the Warden’s face and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. The guard tensed instantly, but the Warden only turned away from him. 

Not that Chill knew that. He knew nothing about what the Warden was doing, what he was thinking. He knew nothing of the memories that flashed through the Warden’s mind as he regarded the Saiyan staring up that them. He did not know that the Warden saw someone different than he had seen the first time, someone different than the soft-faced boy, only barely toeing the line of manhood, clad in Frieza’s armor like a beloved, pampered dog. He did not know that the Warden thought he was still so utterly the same. Still cold, still enflamed, still _stunning_ —

The Warden spun on his heel. The chains on the floor rattled with the force of his stride, and all in his path scrambled away. The Warden reared his leg back and kicked it out hard, narrowly missing Chill’s neck. The boy’s body flew back, slamming hard against the wall behind him.

He felt the severed threads tie back together as the pain ran over him like water. He did not think he imagined the snap he heard from his shoulder.

The Warden towered over him and the air seemed to crackle with his rage. Chill felt the slightest bit of fear.

The Warden’s foot came up to grind into Chill’s injured shoulder, keeping him crushed tight against the wall. He whimpered, but stayed still, trying his best to plead with no words.

The foot dragged across his shoulder and came to rest its weight over his throat. “You are a liability. Perhaps I should kill you now.”

Chill gagged, and his mouth gaped desperately for air. His nails clawed hopelessly at the boot holding him down, pressing forward bit by bit until he would surely bruise beyond repair. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he wondered just what he had done to make the Warden so angry. He wished he could apologize.

Several seconds passed, seconds in which Chill felt his death was becoming more and more inevitable, choked against the wall on this ship for reasons he did not know, so close and yet so far away, _always so far away_ —

The pressure released. He collapsed forward, hardly noticing his forehead crashing into the ground as he grasped at his spasming throat, gasping desperately through his swelling pipes.

The Warden stooped before him, his voice a low whisper. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said, running a hand through his locks of hair. “You are valuable to me. No one can do for me what you do.”

His tug was gentle, but firm. Chill lifted his head. “I will not kill you, but I do not have to be kind to you. All your life I have treated you like the treasure you are to me, but I don’t have to do that. It is a privilege you don’t deserve, but you’ve received it because I am gracious. That can change. You do not want that to change, do you?”

Chill could not find the strength to shake his head, and the moment a hand closed around his neck he sobbed.

“ _Shh_ ,” the Warden— _his Master_?—hushed, rubbing his thumb gently against the edge of his blossoming bruise. “Swear to me you will behave. Swear to me that you will be good, or I will personally see to it that every coming year of your life is worse than the last.” The hand tightened. “Do you swear?”

Chill nodded fervently.

The hand loosened. Hard fingers petted his cheek. “I trust you. You’ve never let me down, have you? Of course, you haven’t, you’ve always been good for me. You know who you belong to. You are all mine, and nothing of his. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”

Chill leaned into the touch and nodded, feeling so very tired.

The Warden holds him for a moment longer before rising to his feet. “Now then. Pilot, let down the ramp!”

Seconds later, the entire ship rumbled and creaked. Raw, fresh air filled the cabin as the ramp lowered, and it nearly hurt his lungs to breath. Or maybe it was his injured throat that was the problem. The coolness was not too terrible against the bruises though. Maybe it would prevent his throat from swelling shut altogether. It would be such a waste after his life was so graciously spared.

“On your feet!” the Warden demanded, and so he stood with the others. They lined themselves in a single file, holding themselves still as the chains were locked around their ankles. Despite the pain around his neck and the burning numbness in his shoulder, his heart still pumped wildly in his chest. He was not excited anymore, all of that had burned out of him until all that was left was anxiety and fear.

Chill was a good boy. He was a very good boy. The Warden had said so. He _trusted_ him because he was so good. He was not like the others—he did not need the threat of a cracking whip or public demonstrations, nor did he need wary eyes on him watching him constantly to prove his loyalty. No one questioned his obedience, his servility, because he was a _good boy_.

Chill had seen others who were not like him, who needed to be broken before they were good boys. Chill did not understand them at all. Neeila told him before that there was no need to break someone in who had nothing to break. She said that like it was a bad thing, but Chill never knew why. He knew his role; clung to his role and lived by it well. He was a servant; a vassal; the perfect slave. He was a monster who atoned for his sins and those of others by submitting to the leash and shackles that fate had designed him for. 

The leash strung him to the world. The shackles were his existence. Without these chains what would he have then? Certainly not a beloved Master who pet his hair and held him closer than he did anyone else.

Chill did not want to lose the place that was made so perfectly for him. He did not want to stop being the Warden’s good boy, but this... this was a risk. Just because _he_ was a good boy, did not mean that... that _man_ would be. This was too _risky_. What if he caused trouble? It would be all Chill’s _fault_ , and who would be the Warden’s good boy then?

A smaller voice told him that was not the real risk. The voice told him that the risk was not that that man would cause trouble, but that he wished he would.

No, no, no. Chill did not want that, he truly didn’t. He was the Warden’s and no one else’s. 

Yet he was _curious_. He had always been curious about the one who had carried him. The man was an enigma—not so well known as his tyrant father but feared enough that his name still crossed the lips of people even after his supposed death. Powerful, he had heard, and ruthless. A servant of Frieza but never secretive about his loyalties, who had in the end, turned on his lord the first chance he got. He knew little else aside from that. How could he _not_ be curious?

Curiosity about a dead man, however, was different than one that would breath and speak right in front of him. Now he could _know_ , and he should not want to know, but he _did_. What would the man who carried him in his body think of him? Would he look at him with pity? Disgust? Would he be horrified by the life he had brought into this world? Would he even care?

(Sometimes in the dreams Chill wished he didn’t have, his carrier would know him the minute his eyes fell on him. He would run to him and hold him and pet his hair and tell him he was a good boy over and over again. He would say he was proud that he had been so good for so long and give him extra rations at dinner and hold his hand so that he would never get lost. He would wrap him up in warm blankets at the end of the day and tell him stories in a soft voice. He would kiss his forehead and promise that he would be there when he woke up. He would be like the parents Chill had seen around him, who even when their children were crying and screaming and behaving so badly, still treated them like they were gifts.)

Nausea suddenly rolled in his stomach. Chill did not want to know. Chill wanted to go home and never leave again.

“Now then, let us give a warm hello to our old friend!” the Warden exclaimed, and they stepped out into the light.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorellina = little sister in Italian, which in this universe, is the native language of Neeila’s people.


	5. The Regard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes graphic descriptions of injuries.*

Chapter Four: _The Regard_

"Do you think someone is in there?" Kakarot asked with a casual voice.

Annoyance struck Vegeta like a dart through a colored board. His eyes tore away from where they were contemplating foreign aircraft—which, despite its enormity, seemed crude, almost primeval in design—to stare at the other man, the corners of them twitching violently. Did he seriously just ask that? As if it were not a _spaceship_ they were looking at?

Perhaps the amount at which he was bothered by Kakarot’s words was a bit excessive, but with his nerves already frazzled from his earlier ponderings being interrupted by this very man, and the arrival of this strange, potentially hostile vessel, he found he had no patience left to indulge in idiocy. When Vegeta turned towards him, his lips were already poised to unleash unforgiving criticism on what he viewed to be a foolish question, and perhaps he would even throw in a jab at his brain capacity or something similar if he found himself so inclined.

No critiques fell from his lips, however. The words almost instantly caught in his throat as he stared up at the taller of the two. Kakarot looked the same as usual: his large biceps curled up as his hands cradled the back of his head, the toe of his boot tapping against the grass behind his other foot, his face curious. There was something different though, something tight and mindful lingering beneath his skin. His calm attitude was feigned. Curious, he undoubtedly was, but not in a reckless, or even simply careless way. His round eyes were fixed intently on the craft before them, and there was a vigilant tension in his stance that had not been there when they were speaking before. His body claimed to be as ease, but really it was waiting, prepared for when, if ever, the moment called for action.

Vegeta blinked, genuinely surprised by what he saw. He did not really know the other man that well, but from the little time that they had spent together, he knew that Kakarot hardly ever seemed bothered by what was happening around him. He never took anything seriously, and yet he stood there as if he expected Hell itself to spring out of that ship.

 _Interesting_ , Vegeta thought, though he was unsure if it was the demeanor itself that he found interesting, or the fact that he had noticed it. Were there other instances, others he didn’t notice? Was Kakarot always like this, or was it only this specific event that had him on edge?

Vegeta huffed in answer to Kakarot’s—still idiotic—question and looked away, deciding that he did not care enough to ask.

Several moments went by in silence. Kakarot did not say anything else, and yet Vegeta’s nerves began to worsen. He had little patience on the best of days, and as each second passed, the option of simply blowing the craft to smithereens seemed more and more appealing. 

He nearly had, his palm raising amid Kakarot’s hurried protests, when a loud creak filled the air around them. The scrapping sounds of rusted metal hammered at his sensitive ears as the bridge of the spacecraft began to drop. The bottom edge of the bridge crashed into the earth without grace, flattening the grass and sending chunks of mud and green blades flying through the air. Vegeta dodged them with ease, and though he had not looked to make sure, he was rather certain a clump hit Kakarot in the forehead.

The opening of the craft was dark, nearly impossible to see through. For long seconds, no one emerged, until nearly two minutes passed. Kakarot appeared as though he would spontaneously combust from the effort it took to hold in his impatience—if there was anyone who rivaled Vegeta in that regard, it was apparently him—when finally Vegeta could make out the outlines of figures through the darkness.

It was odd watching the group descend to the ground below them, their movements unbothered by the steepness of the ramp. Every single head donned the same dark brown, shortly cropped hairstyle. Across all of their faces were gadgets that ran from one ear to just the side of their mouths—some type of translator device, he assumed.

Their uniforms were also undifferentiated: thick, deep blue jackets decorated with golden buttons and epaulets on the shoulders; belts that proudly held whips and guns and other such weapons; slick trousers that led into high, black boots. Those boots rose and fell in time with the ones around it; every arm was locked tightly against their sides; every head was raised to the same height; every chest took in air and released it at the same moment; every face wore the same guarded expression. Vegeta did not see a troop, but one single being. A single being that demanded his attention and captivated it completely. He could think of nothing else aside from it.

He restrained from idiotically shaking his head, but he did blink several times until the odd spell broke. With his mind clearer, he noticed now that while they were incredibly similar, the beings did not, in fact, all look the same. While they were all tall, they did have some variations in height. Furthermore, while their faces were incredibly alike, none were truly identical. He could also see breasts poking through of some of the jackets. There was also not nearly as many as he had originally thought—only about seven.

Their skin however—looking more like cracked stone than flesh—was all the same and was distantly familiar.

The small gasp that fell from Kakarot’s lips reached Vegeta’s ears at the same moment he himself froze. They both saw _them_ at the same time—the little ones who trailed timidly behind the imposing unit. 

There was a total of ten of them, and unlike the previous company, they varied vastly in appearance. Some had hair, others not. Some had flesh, others had scales. One was even covered in feathers, and they all varied in colors. One was missing an arm. Another had wings that were bent in a way that was surely unnatural. A third had the sickest of fluids flowing from where their right cheek _should_ have been.

(Vegeta could not help but to avert his eyes away from that one before the sight could turn his stomach).

Despite these differences, Vegeta found that they had similarities just like the group of identical individuals ahead of them. They were all small in size, none of their heads reaching past the five-foot mark. They appeared to have been cleaned, though their skins were still decorated with wrinkles, and blemishes, and tainted with unnatural hues, betraying the fact that they did not bathe as often as they should. Their bodies were frail and shivering in the cool temperature, their bones sticking out prominently through their thin wraps of skin. Their uniforms were all the same: button-down shirts with light and dark grey stripes, and hardy, black boots. They were all slaves or prisoners if the shackles around their wrists and ankles binding them together were anything to go by. They all shivered; They all kept their head submissively tipped down; they all screamed _terrified._

Vegeta sneered, disgusted by what he saw. He nearly turned away, dismissing the lot of them altogether when his eyes caught onto the last of the prisoners, who brought the total number up from ten to eleven.

He—at least, Vegeta assumed it was a ‘he’—was one of the smallest of them, standing as far away from the rest of the group as the shackles allowed. He was scrawny like the rest of them, with a thin, brittle neck and a sharp clavicle bone just begging to pierce through his pale skin. Between his legs hung a furless tail, the appendage clearly bruised with tiny bones poking out in way they shouldn’t. Dirty, dark hair swallowed his tiny head in a forest of spikes. His bangs made a curtain over his forehead, and the rest of his face was carefully hidden as his chin tucked itself into his neck so tightly that it had to be painful. The child—again, an assumption—was also trembling, though if from a seeming chill or simply terror was unknown. There was also a notable tension in his stance, which meant probably either one of his feet or legs was injured. Furthermore, from the loose shirt sleeve, he could see a darkening bruise peeking out on his shoulder. Other than that presumption, he did not seem to have any major afflictions like some of others he was chained to.

Vegeta stared for a moment longer, before he dismissed him as well.

He turned his attention back to the ramp and watched as the final alien made his appearance. The first group (who he suspected must be guards of some sort) parted down the middle for him. He strode forward with an air of haughty confidence—as if he knew exactly the threat the two saiyans before him posed and yet was not inclined to feel even a smidgeon of fear for it. 

_Why would I fear you_ , the man seemed to say, _when I know something you do not?_

The man put Vegeta on edge. He shared their brown hair and cracked skin, yet he was undeniably different from the others. Dissimilar beyond even the obviousness of his clothing, which were a different color and more elaborate in design than the other guards'. The carefully blank faces and rigid postures of the others was completely lost on this man. His arms swung carelessly at his sides, a downright pep in his step as he strode down the opened pathway. Underneath his nearly gaudy hat were jovial eyes the same color as his suit, and a wide smile above his sharp jaw. He might have even passed as handsome, in the way that one would praise fine wine, but while the smile was polite and charming, underneath it lurked something that Vegeta could not quite decipher. It unsettled him, until Vegeta berated himself for being so affected over a stranger’s facial expression of all things.

The tall man held Vegeta’s eyes as he stopped in front of him. A moment passed, before shockingly enough, he tilted his head down, and his stone fingers spread across his chest.

“His Royal Highness, Prince of Vegeta.” The man looked up with a grin. “Or should I say, His Majesty, the King?”

Vegeta arched his brow. “No.”

He noticed that the man’s lips did not quite match the words filtering from the device around his face. Their translators must change soundwaves, then. It was much unlike the translator chips Frieza had implanted inside of all of his soldiers, so every language was clearly understood. In contrast, the device seemed rather primitive, but it was certainly a step up from Earthlings, who had no such translation methods at all.

“Ah.” The man straightened. “I do recall you explaining a bit of the workings of saiyan ascension of royalty, though given that it has been some time since then, I figured it would not hurt to make sure.”

Vegeta's only response was to stare. The man arched a brow as well. “I take that to mean you do not remember me?”

“Who are you,” Vegeta demanded, refusing to be thrown off-kilter. The man’s grin grew.

“I am called Ziloh, descended from the third blood of His Imperial Majesty Hikso, the Warden of Division III.” He gave a short laugh, sweet like the twittering of birds. “My, was that a mouthful.”

Vegeta’s eyes widened slightly as the name shook the fog off his memories. Vaguely he did recall this man, and the people who called themselves the Tena’s—a feat in itself that he even remembered that much, given how unimportant such knowledge had been even at the time, never mind now.

Vegeta had been in his late teens, maybe nineteen or so with fringes still brushing his forehead, when Frieza had sent him and his saiyan team to conquer some planet he could no longer recall the name of. It would have been more efficient to have just killed all of the inhabitants, though Frieza made it clear that he wanted all casualties to have been kept to a minimum, and to have the entire populace shipped to the prison planet, Tene’mareen. Frieza had claimed that it was too strengthen relations with the prison planet through live trade, though Vegeta knew Frieza had just been amusing himself with whatever stupid game he had thought the whole thing was.

He followed orders anyway. It was one of his more difficult missions—not to say that the inhabitants of the small planet were particularly powerful but controlling an entire population without leaving so much as a single straggler was no easy task for anyone. He had succeeded, and as ordered, had personally delivered the inhabitants to the prison planet without a single casualty. He remembered being proud of himself for the accomplishment. 

Even more vividly than the pride, he remembered how awful the place was.

The planet was like an oven on the highest setting. The air had been hot and thick, sticking to the walls of his throat until it felt like the passage had closed entirely. The heat came from the suns but there was no sky, only heavy, scarlet clouds that hung oppressively above everything below. He could even remember the smell, could definitely remember how every breath he took was tainted by the odor of unwashed bodies and excrements and how it had his stomach feeling sick even after he had long left the planet behind.

Then there were the prisoners, and that was a generous term. They were more shells of skin and skeleton, resembling people but only just. They walked with missing limbs and bones sticking out in ways they should not. Some labored with spines bent almost completely forward, others waddled with stomachs round and fat but not filled with food. Festering wounds covered their flesh, and insects ravaged their scalps, but none seemed to notice. They moved like puppets on marionettes, laboring away with eyes devoid of souls.

No, those things were not prisoners at all. Vegeta knew what a prison and its inmates looked like when he saw it, and he saw none of it there. What he had seen there was slavery, the lowest hells of slavery.

Vegeta had seen horrible things. He had seen war, and death, and torture, and the way the light left a slaughtered child’s eyes, and the face of a mother still grieving even in the face of her own demise.

He had never seen anything like Tene’mareen.

Compared to all that, meeting the man himself had been rather uneventful. The whole ordeal had been but a mere gesture of formality whilst trading the prisoners. Vegeta did vaguely recall him smiling the way he was now, his words and mannerisms overly flippant for a man of his apparent status. He hated the warden of the third Division during that brief encounter, but then again, he hated most people he came across, so it was not as if there was any reason for the man to be particularly memorable.

In fact, he probably would have faded away from Vegeta’s memory entirely, if not for his eyes. There was something unsettling lurking deep in his navy eyes, hidden almost completely by the overtly lascivious look that the man took no cares to hide. Vegeta had been more focused on the latter look and had been nearly snarling in indignation, desperately wanting to snap the man's neck like he did to most other people who dared to look at him that way. Vegeta was a prince and an elite, not a slab of meat to be devoured.

He did not kill him, but he _did_ break several bones in his hand when they shook goodbye. Then he had left and had not thought of the man once afterwards. It had not even dawned on him that the pervert warden of Division III might be someone worth committing to memory.

Not that he was giving that impression even now. Older, he was, but still the same swollen-headed, conceited prick he had been all those years ago. A sham of a ruler, who flaunted his status as if he were the pinnacle of power, as if he had even _earned_ the power he held, instead of happenstance simply birthing him into the right bloodline.

A prince Vegeta was, but he had learned long ago that a name was nothing without strength to back it up. It would seem that Ziloh had yet to learn the lesson.

"You know this guy, Vegeta? Who is he? What does he mean by ‘warden’?" Goku asked in rapid succession.

“Be quiet,” Vegeta said before the other questions hanging off this tongue could leap forth. Kakarot snapped his mouth shut. “Yes. I met him once before. He is, like he said, the current warden of a certain section of Tene'mareen, a prison planet. I’m sure you know what the word ‘warden’ means.”

“I do!” Kakarot exclaimed, as if Vegeta were about to go off on another tirade dedicated to his idiocy at a time like this. “I just got confused with all of the names he was saying!”

Ziloh bowed his head in apology, his expression taking no cares to hide his amusement. “I apologize for the confusion, sir...?”

Kakarot either did not catch the hint to introduce himself or did not care. He barely acknowledged the man before looking back at Vegeta. “And that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”

Realization hit Vegeta for a second time. “That is a good question, Kakarot,” he said, his words dripping with cynicism. He narrowed his eyes at Ziloh once more. "What are you doing here? Certainly not to take prisoners."

"Oh no, of course not!” the Warden exclaimed, reeling back as if the words were a physical blow. He continued, “I could not legally do so, anyhow, seeing as how Earth is not a part of the Planet Trade Organization, or any known Galactic Allegiances for that matter.”

“You’ve done your research, then,” Vegeta commented, his tone implying just how suspicious he found that.

“Well of course, Your Highness. It would be very unprofessional of me to visit a planet without at least being aware of its superficial background, if only to avoid upsetting any alliances or other such legal matters.”

“I take it your visit must involve a very important matter, then, if a warden himself felt the need to come along.”

“Why yes, Your Highness, my business with this planet is of an exceptionally important matter, that does indeed require the utmost attention.”

“And that would be?” Kakarot interrupted impatiently. Vegeta was surprised by the reaction but took cares to make sure it did not show on his face. Again, he had not spent all that much time with Kakarot, but even he could tell that the other man was not one to become so easily incensed.

The Warden regarded Kakarot for a moment. He then straightened and said simply, “I need herbs.”

Both saiyans blinked, stunned. Then: “Herbs?”

“Well, yes, _Yarrow_ and _Echinacea pallida_ , to name a few.”

“Your evasion is becoming annoying!” Vegeta shouted suddenly. “Why do you need our herbs? For that matter, what makes you think you have any sort of claim to use them?"

A whimper, muffled and weak, graced his ears then. His eyes flickered, darting over the group of prisoners before landing on the boy from before. His face was still tipped down out of sight, but his little legs were shaking, and his whole body practically vibrated from the force of it. Was the hidden injury—the one Vegeta only assumed existed—ailing him? Or had it been the harshness of his tone that unsettled him? The other prisoners looked a bit uncomfortable after his declaration as well, so perhaps that was it.

Vegeta looked to the rest of the gathered, though it seemed that no one else had noticed the sound of distress that escaped the boy, not even Kakarot. In the time that passed, he had forgotten that the boy that held his attention for a moment longer than the others before was even there, yet he was the only one to notice that he had made that pitiful little noise. Had he been subconsciously acknowledging him this whole time? Or perhaps he had imagined the noise altogether and was overthinking for no apparent reason. With a silent growl, he turned his full attention back to the Warden.

Ziloh’s amusement faded to make way for a somber expression, and if he had noticed Vegeta’s previous distraction, he did not let on. “A plague has befallen my people. We suspect that a set of prisoners were carrying it when they were transported to us and our diagnostics team hadn't caught it. Either way, my people are reacting negatively to the infection. Our population is dropping by the hundreds every day, and the death toll is only rising. Our physicians believe that they can make an antidote, but our planet lacks the ingredients that they believe are necessary. Earth is the closest vegetative planet, and after a quick scan of the biological activity, we discovered that most of the herbs we need can be found here.”

The Warden looked up then, his eyes shining and pleading, before abruptly dropping to his knees.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, “my granddaughter, Hilla, she’s sick. She is _dying_. Please let us use your herbs! _Please!”_

 _“_ I-I, uh—” Kakarot stuttered as he waved his hands in front of him, looking flustered and awkward and sympathetic all at once.

Vegeta sneered with disgust and turned away from the display. For the third time, his eyes fell onto the boy again, as if his eyes could not even fathom looking anywhere else.

 _Why_ , he wondered. _Why_?

* * *

Chill was certain that his heart was going to stop.

The air on the planet, he found, was considerably colder than Tene'mareen. The gentle breeze felt like harsh whips of ice, forcing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to rise to attention. His chest heaved from his breathing, and every haggard breath he pulled into his throat left traces of frost in their wake. A slight chill-induced quaver, the likes of which he has never felt before, passed through his body.

It was odd, and so very strange. A far cry from persistently dry air and unending, stifling heat, that was for sure. He found the change to be not completely awful. The experience could have been worse for him, he knew, if the way the other prisoners, who were trying and failing miserably to disguise their full-body, agonizing shivers, were any kind of indication. Perhaps his genetics were more suited for climates such as these. He’ll take a wild guess and say that if so, it is probably his Ice-jin blood that made the cool air less intense to his body, despite it never knowing a temperature other than ‘sweltering’.

That was not important, however. It held absolutely no relevance in comparison to the man who stood only a few feet from himself. As far as distances went, that was practically nothing. He could smell him from here. His voice was loud and clear through Chill’s ears.

He tried to do as he was told. He hid his face, kept his tail wrapped underneath his shirt, and stayed as quiet as he possibly could. A few whimpers had escaped him—his shoulder was in too much pain to pretend that it wasn’t—but as far as he knew, no one had noticed.

All except Vegeta.

He swore he could feel those eyes constantly flickering over to him, burning into his cooled skin. Each time he cowered under the weight of them, the pounding of his heart the only thing he could hear, until he felt those eyes leave him. His whole body shook with nerves, his knees nearly knocking together from the force. He fought to control his breathing, barely staving off the panic that threatened to overcome him.

Did Vegeta know who he was? Chill was not sure he wanted the answer to that question.

 _Focus on something else_ , he told himself.

He decided to focus on the conversation going on over his head. He had never needed a translator device to understand what people were saying. He did not contemplate Vegeta’s voice ( _it was deeper than Chill ever imagined. In his mind, he pictured something higher, something smooth, like the lapping waves of the Great Lake underneath the railroad leading out of Division III. In reality it was low and thick, every word spoken with an accompanying growl, like a dog hashing out its final warnings before it attacked_ ). He focused only on the words being spoken. He took in the lies and deceptions that fell like truths from the Warden’s lips. There was no plague ravaging Tena lives, not that he had heard, and Chill heard a lot of things. Furthermore, his granddaughter was long dead, and not from any illness.

It was not his place to question the Warden’s dishonesty. It was not his place to wonder at the game of subterfuge and deceit that played out before him.

It was his place to tuck his head, to hold his tongue, and to do nothing at all. Because even with Vegeta so close, he was so far, far away.

* * *

“Thank you!” Ziloh exclaimed, startling Vegeta back to the scene before him. He grasped Kakarot’s hand and kissed it over and over again as tears ran down his rock face. The sight was disgusting and beyond idiotic. “You have no idea how much this means to me and my people! We are forever in your debt, Kakarot, truly we are.”

“ _Kakarot_ ,” Vegeta hissed.

Kakarot gave him a helpless look as he tugged his hand away from the blubbering mess of a man. Vegeta snarled at him, even as part of him berated himself for his own inattentiveness. It was his own fault that Kakarot had been alone in the decision-making by not paying attention to what was _relevant_.

“Er, my name is Goku,” Kakarot said, “and, um, you’re welcome?”

“Goku, then. I cannot put my gratitude into words. Please, tell me if there is any way to repay your kindness.”

“Er, um, it’s fine. The Earth doesn’t actually belong to us, so you don’t really need our permission anyway. Um, good luck with your antidote.”

“Thank you, we will certainly need it.” Ziloh stepped back. “I hate to leave so abruptly, though we really must be going if we ever hope to find what we need. Earth is a very large planet, and we are on a fixed amount of time.”

Vegeta knew the words that Kakarot was rearing to say before his lips even moved, and yet he was still too late to stop them. “Well, we know someone who may be able to help you find what you’re looking for faster.”

“ _Kakarot_ ,” Vegeta hissed for the second time, missing the aggravated twitch of Ziloh’s brow.

“Really? And who might such a person be?”

Kakarot’s eyes flickered over to Vegeta’s, before replying, “her name is Bulma. She’s Vegeta’s wife.”

“Oh!” Ziloh exclaimed, looking genuinely surprised, as if that information was actually relevant to him. “I had no idea you were married. Congratulations!”

Vegeta huffed in reply.

“Yeah well, she’s a scientist, and definitely knows more about herbal medicines than we do. Do you want me to take you to her? It’ll only take a moment.”

“If it really won’t be too much trouble, I would like to take you up on your offer.” His face then falls a bit, looking contrite. “Are you sure there is nothing we can do? Really, you must let me repay your generosity!”

“Don’t sweat it! I’m just happy to help.” Kakarot turned his body, giving the lot of them his back. “Here, grab my shoulder and I'll take you over to Capsule Corps."

"Pardon?"

"I know a technique called Instant Transmission. I can get all of us over there in just a few seconds."

"How fascinating! Is it the same technique that the Yardratians use?"

Vegeta instinctively tuned out of the conversation (he could admit to himself that he was the smallest bit jealous of the technique he had never learned, and he would not stand to listen to Kakarot wax its praise for the millionth time). Almost as instinctively, his eyes fell back onto the boy again. The boy was now bouncing on his oddly positioned feet, as if they were moments away from giving out under his weight. A trail of blood began to drip from the wound on his shoulder, the entirety of which was nearly black from the bruises. The pain he was surely feeling must be nearly unbearable now.

Ziloh laughed out suddenly, frightening the boy into a full-body jolt. His face raised then, only for a moment, though long enough for Vegeta’s stomach to drop at the sight.

Around the boy’s face was a clean, grey-colored cloth. It completely shielded his eyes, the fabric thick enough that Vegeta could not so much as see the outline of his skin. Undoubtedly, it was a blindfold.

Why was it there? Perhaps he did not have eyes? But no, a prisoner towards the front of the line was missing an eye, though there was no such fabric tied around their face. What was so special about this boy’s eyes that they needed to be hidden? Did they have some sort of powers? Vegeta imagined that more drastic measures than a simple piece of fabric would have been taken then if that was the case.

The boy’s trembling began to grow. Tiny beads of sweat started dripping noticeably from his brow. He knew Vegeta was watching him.

"Amazing! I thought only the natives could master such a technique. To think you accomplished it in such a short period of time is astounding!" the Warden exclaimed. Vegeta reluctantly looked away from the boy, despite the curiosity that now burned through his veins like the beginning flame of a match before it became a bonfire.

"Well, it certainly hadn’t felt like a short period at the time, though you’re probably right about that.”

"Kakarot, don't you think it's time we take these people up on your offer already?" Vegeta cut in, his displeasure at the current ordeal quite apparent. He really just wanted to get away from Ziloh and the other aliens as soon as possible. He had had enough of the disgusting sight they made and their horrific smell. He wanted to fly home, lock himself in his gravity chamber, and forget any of this had even happened. 

He also needed to get away from the boy with the blindfold wrapped around his eyes, before his curiosity got the better of him. There was no point in him wondering about a boy that was not his business. A boy that would be gone by the time the day ended.

Kakarot nodded at him. Then he called out, "Alright everyone, just grab onto any part of my body or each other and we'll be on our way!"

Ziloh and Vegeta grasped Goku’s shoulders, the guards dividing up between either side. The prisoners were hesitant at first, before huddling closer towards the two saiyans. One boldly reached up to grasp at the back of Vegeta’s shirt. Vegeta glowered at her, and the girl yelped before reaching over to grab a guard instead.

“Alright then, let’s go—oh,” Kakarot trailed off.

Vegeta followed his gaze and landed on the blindfolded boy for the umpteenth time. He jumped at the sudden attention, seeming lost as to who or what he should touch or if he should even bother at all. Vegeta doubted he would have too, really. Given that he was chained to the other prisoners, his body would probably teleport regardless.

Despite this, Kakarot still reached down and grasped one of his tiny hands in his.

"Alright, everyone, let's go!" Kakarot exclaimed before fazing them all away, not noticing—or perhaps ignoring—the looks of horror that splayed themselves across the aliens’ faces.

TBC


	6. The Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse and graphic depictions of violence.*

Chapter Five: _The Touch_

**_The Past:_ **

When a tray slammed down next to him, he jumped so hard that he felt a hard twinge somewhere in his spine. The bench he was sitting on creaked underneath the stranger’s added weight. Chill kept his face down, and with shaky hands, brought his hard bread up to his mouth.

“Hi!” the person, a girl, practically shouted.

It took several moments before he realized that she was, in fact, talking to him. He curled his body away from hers and took another nibble of his bread.

“Hey! I’m talking to you.”

He flinched. Then he swallowed his mouthful and turned just slightly to face her.

“ _Hiii_ ,” she said in a voice that seemed familiar, and he could not figure out why she dragged the word out that way.

“Do you remember me?” she asked, and suddenly he did. This was that odd girl who had insisted on speaking with him while they were chained together, hacking away at the stone trench before them with pickaxes nearly longer than they were tall. It had been his first day on his own, outside the grand building where he had lived prior, and of all the things he expected from that day, _she_ was not one of them.

Neeila, she had said her name was.

Unease brews in the pit of his stomach. The girl, just a bit older than him he presumed, had confused him then. She was confusing him even more now, and he did not like to be confused. He inclined his head and turned away again. She was calling attention to him, he was sure, the same way she had done before. The dining yard was crowded and loud, but he was certain everyone’s eyes were on him now, only just noticing the demon seed in their midst now that this girl had given his position of solitude away. He wanted her to go away. He wanted her and her bright voice gone and to never bother him again.

Despite his wishes, she showed no signs of moving on. There was silence for a moment, only the sounds of her slurping at her porridge passing between them, but the lack of words did not dim the stress of her presence.

He was taking another shaky bite of his bread when she spoke again, “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

He said nothing to that.

“Can’t say I relate. My brother says I could talk for days.”

Before he could even think to stop it, Chill’s first immediate thought was that her brother was right.

“You agree with him, don’t you?” She replied as if she had read his mind, the displeasure in her tone quite clear.

His whole body tensed. He berated himself, wondering how he could dare to think something so awful about someone, as if _he_ had any right to think ill of anyone—

She started to laugh, and when she spoke again, her words were just as bright as they had been before, “Well, looks like you and my brother have that in common. He won’t be happy to hear that, the prick.”

He blinked at that. Surely, she had just insulted the one she called her brother—both in comparing him to Chill and in the rude name—yet her voice sounded undeniably fond. He was not sure what to make of that. He wasn’t sure what to make of a lot of things, the ways prisoners spoke to each other being one of them.

“Guess what my mother told me today?” she asked so suddenly that his head turned towards her.

“My teeth are special,” she said and of all things that he imagined would come out of her mouth, that was not one of them. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on my home planet that my mother has to remind me of a lot of things. She said that our teeth were our strongest asset. She said that we can pierce the toughest flesh, and on our planet, if we reflected them off the sun, we could blind our prey, and she says they can even heal things!”

She stopped, as if seeming to ponder for a moment. “Well, I’ve never actually seen these things done before, but my brother insists that they are true, and my mother told me not to tell people or they’ll try and take my teeth right out my mouth.”

He listened intently to every word that came from her mouth, certain that her words will enlighten him on just what exactly was the purpose of her telling him this. Try as he might, however, nothing she was saying made any sense. Teeth? Her family? He did not _understand_.

“Can you do anything special?” she asked. “I heard some guys in the mines a while back say that saiyans can turn into enormous beasts that are so strong they could destroy a whole planet. I thought the guys might have just been telling tales though. It seems pretty farfetched. But maybe it’s true. Is it?”

He wondered why she would ever want to know that. His curiosity was peaked, however, no matter how he wished it weren’t. _Could_ he do that?

He did not know, and he probably never would. Still, he would concede that it was an interesting question, so he allowed her a minute shrug of his shoulders.

She was stunned, if her sudden silence was anything to go by. Before he could so much as take another bite of his bread, however, she seemed to have recovered, her voice coming back with twice the amount of enthusiasm as before. “You know we’ve got the rest of the day free because they are celebrating the Warden’s Creation Day, right? That was a stupid question, of course you do. You’ve got to come see what Jinba built! Do you know Jinba? Probably not, since he lives in my barrack, but his parents used to be builders and he learned how to do so too. He made a swing from a loose board and two ropes and hung it up behind our barrack, and the guards haven’t taken it down so we think it might be okay to stay! Do you know what a swing is? It’ll probably be better for me to just show you. Come on, finish your food so we can go play!”

“No,” the word came out so suddenly that he thought he was just as shocked as she was by it. Every muscle in his body was shaking, but he does not falter. He thought about following this girl—who must either be blind or just plain unhinged—back to her home, walking out in the open where anyone could see, only to be presented to other children who would not be as insane as her and _know_ him—

“No,” he said again, shaking his head. “No... no play.”

She was quiet and he turned away. His stomach felt knotted beneath his skin, but he picked up his bowl to swallow the rest of his rice porridge—what was normally his most enjoyed meal—regardless. He licked around the inside and wet a finger to pick up the crumbs of his bread from the table.

She was still here. Why was she still here? Why wouldn’t she _go away_?

There was the sudden scrapping sound of her snatching up her own bowl, then loud slurping, and finally a loud clang as she slammed it back down. She stood to her feet suddenly, and he could not see her, but he imagined that she was staring down at him like a giant would an ant.

“You don’t want to play? Fine. Those other kids are lame anyway,” she said, and again, they were words he had not expected to hear. “Come somewhere with just me, then! I know this place over by the cliff walls that I go to sometimes with my brother. It’s a little pool of water, but it’s all salt water so you can’t drink it. We can swim in it, though! I bet you don’t know how to do that! It’ll be fun and educational for your survival. You can’t argue with _that_ , now can you? Let’s go!”

For a second time he started to protest. Before he had the chance to speak again, however, she suddenly reached out and grabbed his hand. 

Not his wrist. His hand.

“Come on!” she whispered, but so loudly that he could not understand why she even bothered. “We gotta hurry if we want any time to swim! And we gotta be low-key about it too, ‘cause we may or may not actually be allowed to do this. Don’t worry, though. I’ve never been caught, and once you’re swimming, you’ll be having too much fun to worry about getting in trouble!”

He gaped at her, but if she noticed she did not comment on it. He felt numb with astonishment, but at the same time had a million thoughts running in his head. Most of them had to do with her hand in his, the hold just as soft as her skin, but firm enough that he could feel the warmth of it.

He did not know what to do so he did nothing. When she tugged on his fingers, he followed after her, listening to every word that fell from the strange girl’s mouth.

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

It was barely half a second later when Vegeta, Kakarot, and the host of foreigners materialized in the front yard of the Capsule Corporations building.

The group was silent, staring at Kakarot with abject attention as he released the boy’s hand. Almost as one, their gazes snapped to Kakarot’s face, but all they were met with was the same dimwitted smile as before. The guards had seemingly lost interest first, and whatever thoughts they had on the ordeal that captured their attention in the first place remained unknown as they turned their neutral gazes towards the building in front of them. 

The prisoners, though, seemingly held no such skills in schooling their features. Displayed on their ugly little faces was a myriad of disbelief and something that looked a lot like disgust. Vegeta furrowed his brows at the lot of them, not understanding why they were reacting so, and just as equally not understanding why it bothered him.

They scowled when Kakarot patted the boy’s head with a grin, and in turn, Vegeta glowered at them. His expression was more frightening than anything the lot of them could ever manage, and their gazes dutifully cowered away.

"Welcome to Capsule Corp.!" Kakarot said loudly, snapping the group’s attention to the sight before them. Their tiny eyes bulged in childlike awe as they took in the yard before them. Tall trees stood proudly above them and hanging precariously from their brittle branches were green leaves, their ends dipped with reds, browns, and yellows. Beneath the trees were sandy patches of dying grass, which led to the yellow dome of a building, large and extravagant as it loomed over their little faces.

Vegeta tried to see the landscape from their eyes. Vegeta did not remember much of Tene'mareen from his short visit so long ago, though he did remember thinking it was an incredibly ugly place. This building, his home, slowly falling victim to Earth’s autumn season, was probably the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

Vegeta had found the season oddly beautiful once, too. He had not been familiar with the name the humans had given it for a while, and in his head had simply thought of it as Earth’s period of dying. He had been covertly fascinated by it, in perhaps a bit of a morbid fashion. He’d rarely ever stayed on a single planet long enough to see if it went through a seasonal cycle such as this (he could not even remember if Planet Vegeta had), so it had been admittedly interesting to witness it. The novelty of it had since worn off—it was his home now, after all—though he would not deny that he liked Earth just a bit more during its periods of change.

Vegeta turned to the boy then, not even bothering to berate himself for doing it once again. Sightless as he was, such a sight would hardly make any difference to him, he imagined. Even so, he could not help but to wonder.

He was met with a look of abject horror on the boy’s blinded face.

* * *

_He touched me._

Distantly he could hear the others around him, gasping and muffling other such astonished cries as they took in the grounds before them. The marvel that was this place was not entirely lost on Chill. He did not need sight to acknowledge that the air here was crisp and fresh, and just the slightest bit warmer than the forest clearing from before. He could smell a subtle, yet deeply pleasing, smoky aroma of searing meat coating around him. He could hear several things: the loud honks of Earthen vehicles; the endless bustling of humans walking across the pavement behind him; the small crunch of the leaves beneath his boots. 

He would certainly love to properly experience these things under different circumstances. As it were, he could not spare more than the basic level of attention to them. How could he possibly think of such irrelevant things at a time like this?

_He touched me. That man held my hand._

He held it out in front of him, imagining that he could see it. His hand was hard to picture, but the longer he focused, the better the image of it materialized behind his covered eyes: a scarred palm; slightly crooked fingers; nails the color of coals. He imagined an imprint on it now, a layer of red coloring everywhere that that man’s skin had touched his. 

He could picture the sight, but nothing beyond that.

He focused harder, assessing the nerves for any discomfort. He failed there as well. It was not bleeding. it was not burned. It was not flayed. He thought it might be tingling just a bit, but not unpleasantly, and that maybe it was a tad warmer than it had been before.

But that did not make sense. He could count the number of times that someone had willingly touched him without the intention of harming him, and just about all those times were done by Neeila.

And yet, there was no pain. Logic told him that there should be at least some bit of twinge or pang ailing him, but there was nothing. 

_Why_?

Many things could be said about him, but Chill was not a complete fool. He was fully aware that a simple grasping of hands would not typically be painful, and that there were many other ways that you could touch someone without hurting them. Not all contact was meant to cause harm, of course, because that would defeat the purpose of even having such a feeling in the first place. Pain would have no meaning if there was no pleasure to negate it. He may not experience it often himself, but that did not mean there was no such thing. There was a reason—a very good reason, in fact, as to why he rarely experienced the purer side of physical acknowledgment. To touch him for any other reason than to punish was so unheard of he would not have been surprised if some secret law was made against it.

And yet this man disregarded all of this and touched him anyway. Neeila was different. He knew she was different. She always had been and always would be. This man—this _stranger_ , had no such reason to give him such a gentle touch. And yet he had—even going so far as to pat his hair as if he were _doting_ on him.

He felt himself start to tremble.

Hardly anyone touched his hands. His wrists knew touch well enough—on more times than he could count, the guards had grasped his arms with bruising grips, dragging him about as if he were incapable of directing himself. His hands were special though—only Neeila held his hands in this way, and only when he could bring himself to let her.

Her touch made him incredibly uncomfortable at the best of times. Even after all these years he still tensed when she did it, waiting for the moment when her gentleness would fade, and her grip would tighten until his fingers broke underneath hers. Despite this, he found that he did not completely hate it. Sometimes he even craved it, and she always delivered—gently grasping him as she led him to whatever wonder she wanted to show him that moment, or sometimes just holding him for no other reason than that she wanted too. 

And yet this man had held his hand. Only for a moment but held it all the same.

Chill did not like it. He did not like these feelings, and these thoughts that he did not understand. He hated things he did not understand. He needed something he knew. He did not know how to survive with things he did not know.

It was only then when he noticed he was not breathing right. He bit his lip hard against a frustrated whimper. He tasted blood and he wanted to scream. He had to calm down. He had to calm down. He had to calm do—

Sharp pain erupted in the back of his neck. It came from the harsh fingers that were pressed deep into his pressure points, and if he had not already been biting through his lip he would have certainly cried out from the sudden pain. The stone grip forced him soundlessly to his knees, and only when his shoulders were brushing the fallen leaves did it release him.

He laid on the ground motionless for several seconds, focusing solely on the sharp, lingering stings in his neck. He then quickly stood to his feet, clenching his hands behind his back to restrain them from rubbing at his sore skin. He released a shuttering breath.

The tension from before was gone. He knew this—the Warden’s touch just as well as he knew pain—and his mind was all the clearer for it.

The strange man must not have known who he was, he decided.

 _He was grimacing while he touched me_ , he reassured himself just in case.

Mollified and composed, he focused back on behaving.

* * *

Even from this distance, Vegeta could see the small, red circles of blossoming bruises on the pale skin of the child’s neck.

Vegeta felt his eyes narrow, felt irritation bloom in his chest, felt his stomach clench just so. He did not like any part of what he had just witnessed.

He cursed his own curiosity. No matter how hard Vegeta focused ahead of him, no matter how hard he tried to dissuade the urge, the peripheral of his vision was constantly filled with the boy, until his sight was solely on the tiny, wretched thing. There was something odd about the boy, his intuition told him, and while Vegeta’s instincts had more than once led him astray, he had not given up on them just yet.

The other prisoners’ reactions to his home were intense and incredibly predictable. If anything, Vegeta was more surprised that they had the courage to display such a cringe-worthy amount of astonishment. He would have thought that convicts of the most austere prison planet in the North Galaxy would have had better emotional control. Then again—he acknowledged in admitted perturbation—the lot of them were all undoubtedly children. Uncomfortably young ones, at that. Perhaps unquestionable obedience was a bit too much to expect.

It was that line of thought that brought the boy he was so diligently trying to ignore to the forefront of his mind. His curiosity overwhelmed him, and his eyes betrayed him, openly glancing over to where he knew the child stood.

He was not quite sure what exactly he was expecting to see upon looking over. He anticipated some level of attentiveness (the boy had to rely on all his other senses after all), or he thought perhaps he would see some sort of posture that exuded impassiveness. Vegeta was not a man who was big on making baseless assumptions but given that he had not been deliberating too intensively on the matter, he could not imagine why his eyes would bear witness to anything other than those two scenarios.

He had not expected to see the undeniable panic that grew with each passing second on the boy’s face.

The boy’s face, partially covered as it was, went through notable changes. His tiny jaw was clenched, the bones of his cheeks jumped beneath his skin, and his nostrils flared against the air that was harshly forced through them. His body was tight, and outstretched before him was his little palm. His head was tilted down, and Vegeta was certain that hidden beneath the tied cloth was a scrutiny that would have had anything in its path withering away, thoroughly admonished.

The boy’s rigidly stiff body still somehow managed to exude an aura of diffident obedience, but Vegeta knew it would not last. The boy’s composure was dancing too far over the edge. His inner hysteria was held in check only by a small thread that pulled itself tighter and tighter as each second passed, until its final, inevitable snap.

The boy was panicking, and if Vegeta had to guess why, it was because Kakarot had touched him.

Vegeta supposed it was a good thing that the child was blindfolded. If his body could scarcely hide his inner turmoil, then his eyes—if he did indeed have them—must be like the pages of an opened diary. Perhaps the blindfold was there not to hide gruesome injuries, but rather so the rest of the world did not have to fall victim to the small portals that led too readily into crushing misery, and despair, and prayers of mercy.

All of this over only a second or so of physical contact…

He still did not know what drew him to notice him above all else, but even he could see that this boy was so very, and so undeniably damaged. Broken in a way no man should ever know. That a child, a boy the same size as Trunks, knew this kind of ruin...

Vegeta was no champion for the innocent, no matter their age. Yet, while he had always been a conqueror, he had never been a tormentor. Even at his worst, Vegeta did not think he ever would have brought someone this low. No one, save perhaps, his worst enemies, and even then, he knew he did not have the patience it would take to completely crush a man in both body and spirit. That someone had done this to a person so _young_ —

The feelings blooming in Vegeta’s chest were foreign, and it took him a moment to realize that it was pity. Pity and anger, though he knew the second one quite well.

The former feeling broke, however, as he watched Ziloh’s hand reach out sharply. He watched stone fingers jab into the sensitive points of the boy’s frail neck. He watched the boy fight to _not_ fight against the grip as he was forced to his knees. He watched as, with a rough push, the boy’s face acquainted itself near soundlessly with the grassy ground.

He watched as the boy laid motionless for several moments. Then he watched as he pushed himself back to his feet with a new, eerie calm emanating about him, seeming to not even notice the blood that dropped from his bitten lip. His face was unnaturally blank, like a window of a long-abandoned house. He looked as if he had left the lot of them behind entirely. 

Just... gone.

Vegeta felt very disturbed. Then, he was outraged. 

Vegeta pinned his gaze on Ziloh. The Warden turned his navy eyes toward him. Long seconds passed as their eyes lingered on one another, Vegeta’s scrutiny turning more and more fiery as the contact persisted.

 _Touch him again_ , his eyes said. _Touch him again, and I’ll end you_.

Ziloh looked away. His eyes betrayed nothing as he looked up at the building once more, but there was a wary edge in his stance that had not been there before. The sight of it filled Vegeta with vicious satisfaction.

That thought jolted Vegeta back into proper awareness, the change so drastic he was nearly sent reeling from the force of it.

Why?

Why was he _acting_ _like this_?

TBC


	7. The Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse and graphic depictions of violence.*

Chapter Six: _The Understanding_

“This is where Bulma and Vegeta live,” Kakarot’s voice called out, seemingly unaware of all that was going on behind him.

Vegeta—still troubled by his behavior but seeing no point in pondering over it now—stepped forward. He began to move up the pathway leading into his home when Ziloh stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The same hand that had gripped the boy’s neck.

Vegeta's eyes bore down harshly on the hand. The Warden, however, did not take the hint, so Vegeta roughly knocked it away. He tilted his head and looked up sharply at him.

Ziloh, to his credit, appeared to have regained his composure from earlier, and seemed to not have even noticed the brush-off. He regarded Vegeta with an easy expression, and Vegeta berated himself for letting the man get to him so.

“I would like to join you,” Ziloh said, “if that is alright.”

Vegeta bit down on the terse ‘no’ that wanted to fall from his tongue. “Why?”

“Well I thought it would be rude of me not to personally thank the woman who will be responsible for the success of my mission, especially when I am so readily available.”

Vegeta narrowed his eyes and wondered if he should say something like ‘go to hell’ or stick with the simple ‘no’.

Ziloh, it seemed, misinterpreted his look. The smallest flicker of wickedness graced his smile as he said, “It would only be me, of course. I would not want to risk overwhelming your wife with the entirety of my cadre of servicemen. We also would not want any of _them_ to track anything unsavory into your lovely home, now would we?”

The statement, it seemed, was not subtle enough to go over Kakarot’s head, who sucked in a sharp intake of breath. He could feel Kakarot’s outrage growing, and Vegeta quickly spoke just as the other saiyan opened his mouth.

"Stay with the Tenas," Vegeta said curtly. Kakarot narrowed his eyes at him. His words remained unspoken, but his expression spoke them loudly enough.

_I don’t like him._

That much was clear.

_I don’t trust them._

Neither did Vegeta.

 _Make them leave. Make_ him _leave._

Well Kakarot would certainly have something to bitch about if Vegeta killed them, so how else was he to get rid of them aside from appeasing them until their business was done?

 _It was_ you _who brought them here,_ he thought, sourly. If Kakarot had a response to that, his eyes didn’t show it.

Vegeta's eyes lingered on Kakarot’s a moment longer, before he beckoned for Ziloh to follow. Together, the duo walked the stone pathway that led to the headquarters-cum-residence.

Vegeta wondered idly just when it was that Kakarot’s eyes became so eloquent.

* * *

Goku frowned, watching as Vegeta and that man—who towered over him quite ridiculously—walked side by side up the path. When they disappeared into the building, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself. There’s no use getting so upset. Vegeta will help them, and then they’ll leave, and he won’t have to feel like this anymore.

Just then, he registered a faint scent of flavor pervading through the air. It caught deliciously on his sensitive nose. 

His mood was improved, he decided.

He turned back towards those who remained, letting his usual cheer take over his face like a good friend. Or perhaps a cozy blanket. “They could be a while—especially if they get Bulma to start ‘explaining’ things. No sense in waiting out here.” He turned towards the smell. “Come on, this way!"

The guards narrowed their eyes at him, though they said nothing. Goku could see the reluctance in their eyes and he said nothing as well. Loathe as they were to follow him, the lot of them were beginning to draw attention, as several humans had already stopped to stare at the spectacle happening in the front yard of the infamous Capsule Corporation building.

"Come on, it's not too far," Goku reassured, before turning away. He could hear some of the guards murmuring to each other in a language he did not know before they reluctantly began to follow him. He ignored the glares at his back. Instead, he focused on the smell of meat and other delicacies, focused on how happy they made him feel.

With every step, the smell of food grew stronger. Goku and the rest of the aliens had nearly outlined the entire perimeter of the building when the scent trail ended in the backyard. He could see several grills set up, emanating the delicious smell of searing meats and sizzling vegetables. He breathed in deep, and his good mood seemed to become all the more genuine.

His ears twitched at the tiny groans of pain. It was then that he heard a chorus of grumbles, and gods he doesn’t think even his own stomach had ever sounded so pitiful.

"Whoa, you guys sound hungry!” he said loudly—too loudly. He tones it down. “I'm sure there's enough food here for—"

“No,” said a guard, roughly, the language Goku understood now filtering through the device around his face. “We are not here to eat.”

Goku's eyes narrowed. “I'm sure you have enough time for a quick meal. The kids seem hungry.”

If the man was caught off guard by the seemingly joyful man's change in demeanor, he didn't let it show. Instead, he said evenly, “Our prisoners’ digestive tracts cannot handle your Earth food. It is not wise to feed them.”

It was perhaps not a lie, but even Goku knew better than to be so easily deterred. “I'm sure that we could find—”

"Oh, Goku, honey, it's good to see you!” came the high-pitched voice of Bulma’s mother, cutting him off. In her hands was a tray stacked precariously high with foodstuffs. He took the load from her and set them on the table. She beamed at him, and if she noticed the relatively odd group behind him, she did not let on. “I made all this food for Vegeta and Trunks, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere! No use in it all going to waste. Come sit down and have some lunch!" From the pocket of her apron she produced a few packets of moist towelettes, to which she handed to Goku.

“I’d love to,” Goku said as he ripped open one of the packets, “but first, do you have anything that’d be easy on the stomach? Something like bread or crackers?”

“I _do_ , actually.” She grabbed a nearly full loaf of wrapped bread slices from one of the trays. “Though I’ve already got some sandwiches made, dear.”

“I know, it’s not for me,” he took the loaf from her, and gestured to the children. “It’s for them. They seem hungry, but they can’t eat anything too complex.”

He turned to the guard from before. “I’m sure they could handle this, right?”

Goku found a deep satisfaction in the hard set of the man’s jaw.

Triumphant, he was just about to twist open the package when he heard, “Hey, Goku!”

He turned towards the voice and smiled. “Hey, Yamcha!”

Yamcha smiled back just as brightly. Puar was not with him, which Goku thought was already an odd enough sight, but even odder was perhaps the fact that Vegeta’s son, Trunks, was trailing along beside him. Or perhaps it wasn’t odd. Goku wouldn’t really know what was normal nowadays, would he? 

“Hi,” the boy said to him, after indulging his grandmother in a reluctant kiss.

“Hey, Trunks. I thought Chi-Chi said you were coming over to play with Goten today?” he questioned, remembering the conversation he'd had with his wife the night before.

“I was,” he answered, “But Ms. Chi-Chi called and said that Goten is sick and won’t be able to play.”

Goku blinked. He hadn’t known that.

Before he could come up with an answer, Yamcha cut in. “So, who are these folks? Friends of yours?”

Goku wasn’t quick enough to fight the frown that came over his face. “They’re from a planet called Tene'mareen. They came here to find some special herbs to heal their sick people. Bulma and Vegeta are talking with the leader guy now.” He held out the loaf in his hands. “I was just about to give the kids some bread. You guys wanna help me out?”

Trunks took his stack of slices without protest. Yamcha gave the children a strange look, and then regarded Goku like he had questions he was not sure how to ask as he took his own slices. Goku thought he felt the same way, though who he would direct his questions to he was not too sure.

Goku approached the first child. The child watched him with wary eyes as he knelt and offered two slices. For several seconds neither moved, until finally, the child’s stomach growled loudly, and she snatched the slices away from him, cradling them protectively against her chest and glaring harshly at him, as if daring him to take them away.

Goku grinned at her, but inside he felt hollow.

Down the line the three of them went, handing out slices to cautious, teary eyes and snatching fingers. Trunks seemed rather irritated by the behavior. Yamcha kept the pleasant smile on his face as he handed a small girl with violet eyes, long black hair, and equally black wings her slices, but his demeanor grew darker by the second. Goku wondered what his own face looked like. It was probably not as pleasant as he hoped, if the way the blindfolded boy from before trembled underneath his gaze as he reluctantly took what was offered to him was any indication.

Once all the children were served, Goku stepped back over to the picnic table and folded himself down onto the bench. He picked up his utensils, but despite the undoubtedly delicious food spread out before him, just the thought of putting any of it in his mouth made the queasy feeling in his stomach worsen. Would he dare sit here and gorge himself on this feast when all he had given those clearly starving children was _bread_?

The hot glares he could feel on his back from the guards made him feel the oddest bit better, but then he heard the pitiful smacks of the children nibbling on their offerings and he felt unbearably low again.

Out the corner of his eye he could see Yamcha settling beside him. “Goku,” he said, his voice low and very displeased. “What’s going on?”

Goku didn’t know what to say. He thinks he could count the number of times he had ever been truly speechless on one hand. But now, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to explain the horrible spectacle he had brought to his oldest friend’s home.

“I don’t know,” was what he said.

“Hey,” he heard, but it’s not directed to him. He doesn’t turn, but he figured that Trunks must be speaking to one of the prisoners.

He received no reply.

Trunks tried again. "Aren’t you guys bored just standing here? We could play while we wait, if you want.”

Trunks was not his son, but in this moment, Goku felt proud of him. From what he had seen of the boy the several times he had visited Goten, he was not the kindest child. He was not cruel, of course, but he did have a tendency to say hurtful things, and he was undoubtedly spoiled. Goku had not expected he would make an effort to show kindness towards dirty, boney, and admittedly ugly prisoners. 

Despite Trunks' efforts, however, once more there was no response. Their little eyes remained at their feet, and only the tension in their bodies showed that they had heard him at all.

"Okay then," he said awkwardly, disappointedly, and Goku wondered if he should have deterred him from even trying.

He heard a sigh pass from Trunks’ lips as he stepped away, directing his attention to the display of steaks on the picnic table. He had barely placed the slab of meat on his otherwise bare plate when he froze, his eyes directed on a point further down the table.

Goku furrowed his brow and followed his gaze. His eyes fell on the boy from before, the blindfolded one whose hand he had held. He was leaning slightly towards a plate of barbecue ribs, his nose twitching hungrily as the tip of his dry tongue darted across his cracked lips so subtly, he himself had probably not noticed he'd done it.

Goku had never felt so sick in his life.

Trunks, oblivious to just how truly heartbreaking the sight before him was, set aside his own plate and grabbed a new one before heading towards the boy with purpose in his step.

“Hey,” Trunks said brightly, and the boy’s entire body stiffened in response. “If you were still hungry you could’ve said so. Do you want one?”

In lieu of an answer the boy drew in on himself and wrapped his arms tight around his face. Goku saw the way Trunks cocked his head and took a step back in stunned confusion. Goku also saw the guard from before stepping forward with his arm drawn back, a long rope trailing over his shoulder. Goku knew then that it was a whip—like he had seen a ringmaster use on an animal at a circus show he had seen once with his family, before Chi-Chi quickly called the scene disgusting and decided that they ought to leave. The guard drew it down hard and Goku saw every movement, like time had slowed just where the weapon was flying. His reaction was even slower—because while time had slowed it was also too sudden at the same time. The whip had already hit the boy by the time he was on his feet.

His arms swung a second time and Goku’s body blurred. He fazed beyond Trunks, then the boy, until he was directly in front of the guard. He grabbed the guard’s wrist tightly, and with a shout, he dropped the whip. Goku caught it in his other hand, and in not even a second, crushed the handle to pieces before his energy disintegrated the whole thing. His sharp eyes bore into the guard as his free hand flew to the gun strapped to his belt.

“Kakarot!”

Goku’s eyes narrowed at Vegeta. He saw Ziloh beside him. In his stone hands was a sheet of paper, a list of ingredients, or perhaps coordinates. Goku didn't really care, and bared his teeth at him.

“Back off,” Vegeta said once the two of them stopped, his arms crossed tight against his chest.

Goku’s jaw tensed.

“ _Now_ , Kakarot.”

Goku let the man go. The guard immediately stepped back into line with the other guards, and if he felt the pain of having the bones of his wrist completely crushed, he impressively kept it to himself.

Goku stomped his way over towards Vegeta. He could feel the deep imprints his boots were leaving in Bulma’s grass, but he didn’t care even a little bit. When he finally stopped before him, there was hardly any space between his fiery gaze and Vegeta’s steely one.

"He was beating him! With a _whip_! In front of your _son_!" he hissed, and he can’t remember the last time he was ever this furious.

Vegeta’s eyes flickered down to where Trunks was hiding behind his leg, having run over the moment his father spoke. Goku didn’t look, because he couldn’t bear to see Trunks’ shaky legs, and simpering lip, and terrified, shiny eyes a second time.

Vegeta looked back at him. “Kakarot, they are prisoners,” he responded lowly. “All of these people are criminals.”

“Criminals?” Goku said incredulously, giving up all pretenses of whispering. “Vegeta, these are _kids_. What could they have possibly done to deserve this? What could _he_ have possibly done to deserve being hit like that?”

“You don’t know that they’re children,” Vegeta says, though he did not seem all that sure himself. “And either way, your personal feelings do not dictate the way the rest of the universe works. These people don’t follow the same morals as you, and you’re just going to have to accept that.”

“I don’t have to _accept_ anything.” He felt something break a little in his chest. Was it betrayal? Was it disappointment? Whatever it was, it had Vegeta staring back at him with wide, astounded eyes. “I will never accept abuse on _my_ planet, right under _my_ nose. Not to a child or anyone else, and I would _hope_ that you wouldn’t accept something like that either.”

"Hey!” Trunks called, drawing Goku’s attention away from Vegeta’s downright stunned face. The boy’s shiny eyes were gone, and in their place was a stubbornly outraged expression as he stared up at the guard from before. Goku thought he looked very much like a son of Vegeta in that moment. “Why would you do that? What’s wrong with you?!”

"And who are you, child?" Ziloh asked, stepping forward with an indulgent smile.

"He is my son," Vegeta said, and despite his simple answer, his displeasure at the situation was quite evident.

"Really?" Ziloh exclaimed in surprised tone that Goku could not tell was mocking or not. "Ah, yes! Now I can see the resemblance! Of course, only you would have such a handsome so—" the Warden was cut off by a choked gasp.

Every eye turned towards the sound. It was that same boy again. His spidery hands were covering his mouth and his knuckles were jammed passed his teeth, yet his muffled whimpers could still be heard. His entire body trembled, and if Goku looked closely enough, he could swear that he saw the cloth over his eyes darken with tears and gods, Goku just wanted to grab him and hold him and feed him and tell him everything would be okay and take away whatever was hurting him and dammit why couldn’t Vegeta see there was something wrong here? How could Vegeta see this and just _accept_ it?

“Hey, don’t do that!” Yamcha exclaimed, crouching down in front of the boy when he bit down so hard on his knuckles that blood began to drip down his hand. He did not even seem to notice him, nor the teeth embedded in his skin.

Goku had the sudden thought that perhaps Vegeta just didn’t care. Goku didn’t know him all that well, but he did know that Vegeta wasn’t very kind. Goku thought back on all the times he had spoken to Vegeta and concluded that he was not a nice person at all, perhaps even more so than Goku wanted to admit. 

Vegeta could be thinking anything right now, or even nothing at all, and the thought upset Goku more than it probably should have.

“Are you quite finished?” Ziloh called, and the boy froze, like the words were a sedative being injected into his blood. his body relaxed, his hands dropping back to his sides and then wrapping behind his back. There were traces of blood staining his lips.

“Oh man, that doesn’t look good. Come on, there’s a first aid kit inside the building,” Yamcha said, reaching out a hand that the boy soundly ignored.

“That won’t be necessary,” Ziloh said. Yamcha frowned and stood to his feet. He opened his mouth, but Ziloh cut him off.

"I apologize for his conduct," the Warden with the sickest amusement, as if it were an inside joke that everyone except Goku was in on. " _This_ one still tends to display behavioral problems, though he is normally easy to correct. Despite the occasional hiccup, he is rather well-trained.”

“Shut up.”

Goku blinked, his astonished eyes trailing over towards Vegeta. The muscles of his arms bulged with tension across his chest, and his face was set in a hard expression. Goku could feel what was hidden underneath his stiffness though—pure, unadulterated rage, perhaps even mightier than Goku’s own.

So, he _did_ care. Goku still felt justified for his anger, but he felt the slightest bit of shame for doubting him.

The Warden regarded him for a moment with an expression Goku could not read, before nodding. “Apologies. I don’t mean to offend. I realize my words can come off as tasteless to some sensibilities.”

Even Goku felt that insult. He wondered how Vegeta—whose temperament was far worse than his—managed to seemingly not react to it at all.

"Anyways," the Warden said, his grin returning with full force. “I can never thank you enough for allowing us use of your planet’s resources. My people will never forget your generosity.”

Vegeta spared him a nod that didn’t look the least bit friendly.

Ziloh looked towards the device wrapped around his wrist. He pressed several buttons before humming in contemplation. “It seems that we are a great distance away from our landing site.” To Goku he said, “I hate to ask for more favors, but would you mind lending us use of your Instant Transmission technique? The faster we get started the better.”

Goku poised his lips to give a resounding ‘no’ when Vegeta nudged him, shooting him a look.

Goku let out a quiet growl before positioning himself in front of the group, letting their hands bunch around his clothes. Quickly, before he could try and link onto someone else, Goku grabbed the blindfolded boy’s hand again. The boy looked less frightened this time, but Goku gave him a reassuring squeeze anyway.

He felt the tiniest squeeze back, and Goku smiled a genuine smile despite the heavy weight consuming his chest.

_Just get them out of here and you won’t have to feel this way anymore._

He lifted his fingers to his forehead and took them all away.

* * *

"I don't think he likes us," the Warden said after the strange man faded away.

"Don't think much of it, sir," a female guard said. "He is of no threat. Intelligence-wise he is of no concern, and the scanner says the level of his power is barely that of 100.”

“Yes, my scanner said the same for Vegeta, but I _know_ he is stronger than that. They must be masking the true measures of their strengths, which _would_ make them threats, don’t you think?”

The guard said nothing, and if she was unsettled by the implications of her misinformation, she did not show it.

The Warden seemed to think a moment longer before throwing his hands up. “Oh well, we don’t have to worry about them any longer, I suppose. Let’s just get what we came for and leave before they decided to get suspicious.”

The Warden turned away from her, and the guard relaxed.

“Before we go, however...” the Warden’s eyes trailed down the line of chained prisoners, all of whom stiffened underneath his gaze.

“Chill.”

A whimper was heard. The guards stepped aside, as did the prisoners, until he was left trapped underneath the Warden’s eyes. His body suddenly felt heavy beyond compare. His legs trembled beneath the weight of it.

“It was a mistake to bring you here.”

The grass crunched beneath the Warden’s heavy boots. Chill let his weight drop to the ground. He buried his face into his knees.

“I know that you follow any orders I give you, though it was still very reckless of me to take you away from III. You don’t belong anywhere else but there. I see that now.” He could hear the _‘click’_ of the Warden unhooking his own whip from his belt. Chill dug the fingers of one hand into his hair, the other—the one the man touched—he kept cradled to his chest.

“I do, though, recall saying I would not tolerate any disobedience from anyone—from you, least of all. I was quite clear on _that_ , I think.” 

The Warden swung the whip out so hard it cracked the air. Chill yelped at the sound, and his heart began to pound in his chest. He felt an emotion, a very unpleasant one, begin to permeate his body. It was different from the constant perturbation he felt when the guards spoke to him or the other prisoners tormented him or even when he was so much as trying to make it through his tasks without accidentally getting himself killed. His heart banged like a drum in his chest; his blood roared through his veins with an aggressive vigor. He wanted to _run_. Run, run, run, and never look back. What was this feeling?

 _Oh_ , he realized. It was terror.

Why? Why was he feeling this way? Why was he fearing something he deserved, something he had always known? How did he make it stop?

The Warden knelt before him and hummed. “I won’t kill you," he said, but his words did nothing to ease his fear ( _why, why, why?_ ); his proximity only seemed to heighten it ( _someone just tell him why!)_. “I still need you. You know that.”

The Warden’s hand darted out, closing around one of his wrists with a vice-grip. He yanked Chill forward, his knees grazing across the grass with a whine. His grip shifted, flipping his wrist until his palm was faced up. He brushed the skin lightly with his thumb.

“This is where he touched you,” he said absently, his nail catching on every ridge and scar.

“He was gentle, but he does not care for you,” the Warden said, though he sounded like the _Master_. “That’s the problem with men like him, you see. He gives out his affection like a dirty whore, but he does not care for you. He has never known your name and has already forgotten your face, yet you protect this hand as if he has bestowed you a blessing. _I_ know your name, Chill, and your face, and every breath you breathe is a gift you owe to me. I’ll erase his touch and remind you just who exactly _cares_ for you.”

The sound of his pounding heart was replaced by the sound of his cries, and the strange man faded away until he was hardly a memory.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we appreciate Yamcha.
> 
> Also, I know that Goku uses Ki signatures to actually use Instant Transmission, though I’m pretty sure I’ve read that Goku can IT places without Ki so long as he’s already been there? If I’m wrong then I cheated, and I, as a fanfiction author, have no problems with that.


	8. The Race

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes child abuse and graphic depictions of violence and death.*

Chapter Seven: _The Race_

The ride towards the first dragon ball was long and uneventful.

The seats of this aircraft were comfortable enough, at least. They were made with some kind of thin-furred fabric, and while it was not particularly soft, it was not hard either. It was simply solid beneath him, and he liked it.

Though he supposed it was not the seat in particular that he liked so much, but rather the sensation that came with it. The vibrations were light, but he could just scarcely feel the rumble of the small aircraft against his back, neck, and head as it glided through the air.

He supposed he should not be so impressed by the slight rumble—it was such a miniscule thing, after all—yet there was something... _soothing_ about it all. It made his mind feel clear, and it was only when his mind was clear that his thoughts were decipherable.

He supposed he had a lot of things he ought to think about. Like Vegeta, and the alleged _brother_ , and saiyans, and Earth, and unfairness, and _why_ —

But no, there would be none of that now.

“Oi,” there was a slap on his shoulder, the offended skin stinging from the force. “I bet that orange guy burned his hand after he touched you," said the random prisoner, who sounded very amused by the whole thing.

It took Chill a moment to recall. He had already forgotten about that shameless whore of a man who had apparently worn orange clothing (or he himself might have been orange—he wouldn’t know). He certainly was not thinking of him either.

He was not thinking of the others either, as a matter of fact, whose bodies were so crunched with his he could hardly move his legs. He thought nothing of their taunts, just as he thought nothing of their pinches and kicks at him. He had already done his part in taking up as little space as possible in the compact carrier—all he could do now was wait until they grew bored.

It took a while—it seemed that the attention of the orange man had excited them—but eventually they all left him be. They were all still close though, his sensitive nose told him with a wrinkle, as did their loud gasps in his ears and the brush of their bodies against his.

He allowed a finger to uncurl and wipe away the sweat line that trailed down his temple. He was not fond of being packed together like this.

He hissed as he wiped at the sweat again, the salty mess running into his wounds. Blood still oozed down his wrist from the lacerations on his knuckles, and the shredded mess that was left of his palm. The worse of the pain had ebbed. A sharpness was all that was left despite how extensive the wounds seemed.

He tried to flex his fingers and frowned; despite the numbness, the muscles were reluctant to move as they should. He wondered how helpful he would be in finding the dragon balls with only one properly functioning hand.

That thought made his abrupt frown clear away, and the corner of his lip twitching slightly instead.

He had a _use_ here. Yes, he knew that the real reason the Warden had brought him was so he would have something to warm his bed, but he did not have to be permitted off the ship to fulfill that purpose. But the Warden _had_ allowed him off the ship; allowed him to join the expedition; allowed him to _participate_. 

Even after the fiasco of earlier, he was still here, still valued as an asset to the mission. Regardless of the abuse the others gave him, he was just the same as the other prisoners here. The advantages he had developed around his small frame would not be overlooked today, nor would his prowess in speed and climbing. His skills may not be unique, but they were his, and he would flaunt them as much as he could while he had this attention.

He would prove it to them. He was useful. He was a good boy. The Warden will see. They _all_ will see.

He braced himself for the craft's descent, gritting his teeth against the uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach as they dived towards the ground. The several changes in speed jerked them all forward and back, the lot of them swallowing back complaints as they tumbled into each other. Still, despite the body flopping rather heavily on his chest, Chill’s anticipation did not falter.

Several second passed (during which the body from before moved and Chill could breathe again) before the dome lid above them lifted. He could feel the brightness of the Earth’s sun against his face as he slid out of the vehicle and onto the grass. It was an odd sensation; despite the immense heat there was no sun on Tene'mareen—at least, not one that he could specifically feel shining, not with the ever-present blanket of clouds in the way. The sun here, however, was a lot like Neeila had described from her natural home. It was not the same, he supposed, (it was not particularly hot, as she had stated) but something else that was hard to explain.

He thought for a moment and decided that the rays felt like a hug. Chill had not experienced many hugs—he could not help but to shy away any time Neeila tried—but he imagined that it would be something like this. A comfortable embrace against the cool vastness of air.

He wondered which Neeila would be—the sun or the air. He would say the sun, but there was something so... _open_ about her, an untamable, stubborn, freeness in her spirit. He doubted she could settle for something as constant as the sun. Perhaps she was a bit of both?

He wondered what she was doing: maybe sleeping or eating. Most likely, she was working. Perhaps she was wondering where he was, why he did not meet her at the mess hall after roll call as was their (proclaimed only by her) tradition. Perhaps she was wondering when he would return, stupid jokes and whimsical dreams waiting on her tongue for his ears to hear.

Suddenly, he wanted to see her _,_ and the thought made a... _feeling_ bloom in his chest. It was not a nice feeling.

How odd.

“ _Attention!_ ”

Chill’s head snapped up as his arms slammed into the small of his back, his legs stiff and feet firm in the soft grass. Quick, precise, movements so familiar he did not even need to think on it.

“ _Forward._ ”

Their line moved in tandem; their every step so intertwined that the chains shackling their ankles together jangled in perfect unison. Chill liked the sound. The other prisoners could hate him all they wanted, but there was no denying that right now, in this moment, he was a part of their unit—a single component that summed into the whole.

With every given direction, his curiosity of this environment grew. It was a much different place than the last one, he thought. The weight of the sun had faded, and yet the air here was incredibly thick and moist. He still was not hot (his body was accustomed to far worse) and yet sweat beaded underneath his fringes. The grass here was longer as well, the soft blades just managing to caress him through his pant legs.

There were a lot of sounds here too, he realized, and they were much different than the ones he had heard before. There were no sounds of voices, or the loud beeps and screeches of the vehicles, or the sizzling of meat cooking over charcoal. Instead, he heard the rustling of vegetation, the patter of what seemed to be running water coming from every direction, the squish beneath their boots as they stepped over particularly wet areas.

He heard _animals_.

He believed that they were animals, in any case. He was not familiar with such creatures aside from the hunting dogs and the larger beasts they were permitted to utilize when transporting large hauls of coal. Neeila told him about the animals on her home though, how some were used for work while others roamed free, and how unique they all were.

He figured that they were different, but these animals reminded him of the ones she had described. Most of them made quiet subtle sounds, like the croak of an amphibian, or the scurry of reptiles. Others were loud, like the sharp coo of birds and their flapping wings, or the distant growls of creatures he could not identify but acknowledged their danger, nonetheless.

Then, he heard it. A cry, so sudden and loud that it cut through the air like a knife through fermented butter. There was another cry, distinctly different and yet exactly the same. He felt every hair on the back of his neck raise, and a tingle shuddering his veins. The cries grew louder as more of the beasts joined in, his heart beating to the rhythm of the song. The cries were wild, unlike anything he had ever heard, and yet it was familiar. He knew nothing of primates, Earthen or otherwise, but he knew this _sound_.

He knew this sound. He wanted this sound. He _desired_ it.

 _I hear you_ , he thought. _I hear you. Can you hear me too?_

A rumble grew in his chest, and he did not fight it. He felt it climb from his lungs and throat, and once it reached his tongue, he opened his mouth and let it free. It was only one, and it was short, but his shriek was _loud_ , unlike any other sound he has ever made. It tore from his body like it had no business being denied in the first place and echoed through the trees around them like a summoning.

For a long moment, all was silent.

Then he was on the ground, the damp grass grazing the new, biting cut along his cheek. 

He had been _attacked_. 

He scurried onto his knees; his body tensed low to the ground. His lip curled back, a snarl aimed at the assailant, daring them to come again.

He heard the whip crack against the air, and he remembered. The snarl died as he was filled with mortification. What had he just _done_?

He felt a hand tighten in his hair, dragging him onto his toes. He kept his own hands at his side, fighting against the urge to relieve the harsh grip. The Warden’s breath was hot and heavy over his face.

“Do not _ever_ do that again, you monkey _bastard_ ,” The Warden growled down at him.

Chill whimpered, and for the second time that day, fear pounded in his chest. He knew the Warden very well. He was a man made of callous smiles, cool deliberations, and witticism-veiled cruelty. He was a man who loved to manipulate, and to play games. It was very rare when the Warden was truly angry, especially at him.

He said he would prove himself to be a good boy, and yet here he was, time and time again, being _bad_.

The Warden gave him a final growl before releasing his hair. Chill stumbled, the taut chains around his ankles his only defense against crashing to the ground again. He righted himself and held himself as still as he possibly could. He could still feel all of their eyes on him and wished desperately that the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole.

Finally, after what felt like years and more years, a guard spoke up, "Sir."

The Warden raised a brow at him.

“The locator says that the dragon ball is one hundred and thirty feet upward, presumably in that tree."

“Our aircrafts only fly about fifty feet off the ground,” another guard added.

“Yes, I am aware,” the Warden said. He hummed for a moment, regarding the tree before them. Then, “24455! 78646!”

Chill snapped to attention, as did the boy three paces down from him. They waited for their chains to be unlocked, and once they were, they both stepped forward. The two of them stopped at the same moment, their bodies close enough that their arms nearly brushed.

Chill was familiar with the other boy, whose true name was Rungo, not the series of numbers. Rungo was not much older than Chill, but his weathered body made their ages seem decades apart. He was short, appearing even more so due to his permanently bent spine. His bald head was infected with hot sores, and the stump where his left arm used to be was scabbed and crusted over.

Most parts of his appearance were told to him in detail by Neeila. Some faults, however, he learned on his own, as he had felt them pressed against his own skin. They shared a barrack, after all, and had even shared a bunk on more than one occasion. Chill knew firsthand how pitiful Rungo must look. He was a walking corpse waiting for a grave to lie in.

And yet, the brittle bones of his legs were stronger than average, and the hand he _did_ have had incredibly useful claws...

Chill would just have to be better. It was not personal; after all, Chill thought rather positively of Rungo. He had never been particularly cruel to Chill; never messed with him while he slept; and in fact, was one of the few people who would even allow Chill to sleep next to him, instead of simply kicking him back down to the floor. He slept next to him as if he were any other, with no regard for how the rest of their barrack-mates felt.

He figured that that meant that the Cold family had never affected Rungo in any way, at least not enough to warrant even some ‘hatred by association’. He was completely indifferent to him, and Chill valued that.

Still, he had a _point_ to prove here.

The Warden regarded them. “Go into that tree and retrieve my dragon ball. You have three minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Rungo answered for them. They both walked forward until they were at the base of the tree. Chill took a deep breath, trying to ease all of the tension from his body.

Rungo only had one arm, but Chill equally only had one truly reliable hand at his disposal. Additionally, Chill had no idea how high the tree was or what it looked like, or even what the _ball_ looked like. All these disadvantages with only three minutes to work with... this would not be easy.

But he would do it.

 _He_ would be the one to reach the ball first. He had never seen Rungo in action, but Chill knew that he himself was no amateur when it came to the act of climbing. Would he call it a talent? Perhaps. The art just came easy to him, eyesight or no. Neeila had complimented him on it several times. ‘ _I’ve never seen anyone climb that fast, Chill!’_ she would say. ‘ _You were born for this!’_

Sure, this tree was probably different than the rocky ledges he scaled back home, but he had faith in his victory. It was not really a race, he knew, but he _had_ to win this challenge. He would put forth all the effort he could in making that happen.

He was the Warden’s good boy, and no one would ever doubt that again.

He breathed out again. _No more thinking_.

He felt his fingertips twitch, his brow furrowing deeper. He imagined the tree in front of him, a force taller than any he has ever seen. He imagined the tree as very thick, its bulky frame casting a shadow over them. He imagined very few branches, and slippery moss, but he also imagined tough bark he could grab, and odd ridges he could dig his feet into—

“ _Go!_ ”

Chill sprinted forward. Just as he reached the base of the tree he stopped, bent his knees, and leapt as high as he could. He latched onto the tree, his nails digging into the bark as his feet steadied him.

Then he was off.

It was much different than climbing a rock wall, Chill confirmed. For one, the mossy bark was incredibly moist, and the force of his grip allowed many tiny pieces of wood to splinter his skin. Still, he refused to slow. He utilized every bit of momentum to push himself harder, higher, _closer_.

He could hear Rungo’s scrabbling beside him grow louder—was he competing with him too? It was an all-out race up the tree, shards of bark flying down as the two climbed higher and higher. If asked, he would not be able to explain just why he was so determined to reach the ball first. Surely even proving his point did not call for this level of will.

He had no answer. All he knew was that he wanted to win.

He could feel the ball ahead of him. There was an odd energy about it, like something that was alive and _not_ alive at the same time. Chill has never felt anything like it before. He _wanted_ it.

_Closer. Closer._

He stretched out a hand and, with the Mind Power, _willed_ it nearer to him. He felt it wobble in its place. He felt it tip forward...

_Almost there..._

Chill heard his failure before it happened. He heard the crack of the large, rotting branch beneath his feet, breaking, and then separating from the body of the tree. He scrambled desperately despite the futility of it. He had fallen back too far, and even if he managed to grab hold again, one arm would not be strong enough to hold up his weight.

He fell.

 _Dammit_ , he thought, his stomach lurching as his body plummeted. This was such an odd experience—the wind rushing past his face and through his hair, and his stomach feeling like it had dropped to his toes. He has had some close calls, but he has never really fallen when climbing before. He felt like he was falling forever and wondered idly just how high up he had managed to climb.

He wondered if this fall would break something.

He wondered if this fall would kill him.

He was unpleasantly surprised when he reached the ground. A loud huff was forced from his chest as his body bounced against the grass with a sick thud. He registered a sharp sting on his tongue, and he gasped desperately around the warm fluid filling his mouth from the wound. His face was a mess of tears and blood—he had also hit his nose, it seemed—and he could hear nothing but ringing and his own gasps for air.

He felt a tightness in his hair, and his face was lifted from the grass and dirt.

“Well, sir,” a guard said, his voice gravely serious. “I would say he somehow managed to hit every single branch on his way down from the ugly tree.”

Chill was confused for a moment—he was positive that he had not hit any branches during his fall—until he registered the barks of laughter and realized that it was a joke.

He was released and could not find the strength to hold himself up. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, numb pain ailing just about every muscle in his body. He focused on refilling his empty lungs and staving off the sudden migraine that was turning his stomach.

"I got it! I got the ball, sir!" Rungo’s shout was nearly a distant echo. Chill imagined him triumphantly holding out the asset, pride shining on his face for all to see, while Chill was a sniveling, bloody mess in the dirt.

He tried not to be bitter about it.

“Drop it!” the Warden shouted up at him.

Rungo did as told. Chill curled his body protectively, mortified at the thought of being struck by the very prize he had sought out, until he heard the smack of the ball landing in the Warden’s palm. Chill heard his contemplative hum as he inspected the ball. He imagined the pleased grin that no doubt sprouted on the Warden’s face.

"It seems our radar was accurate, after all." He tossed the ball to one of the guards, who packed it away. “One down. Three to go.”

Chill heard the shift in the grass as the Warden faced the tree once more. He tilted his head up, and regarded Rungo, who was in the middle of his cautious descent.

“You,” the Warden said to the guard next to him, “help him down, would you?”

The guard unholstered his gun.

Chill heard a lot of things within the next few seconds. First, he heard the wild, desperate scrambling of claws fighting for survival against tree bark. Then, a single bullet firing from a gun. After that, he heard the bang of the bullet cutting through an already brittle branch. Then he heard a wretched sob, followed by the whoosh of a body that was not his own falling through the air. Then he heard the impact, and the sound of it was massively different than his was. This impact was not a thud, but a resounding _crack_. Then he heard a gurgle and the twitch of a paralyzed body desperately trying to make any motion at all.

All those sounds ended with a final gunshot, and aside from the disturbed birds flying from their once peaceful perches, it was silent.

Or perhaps not completely silent. Chill thought he could hear the very oozing of Rungo’s blood seeping from the bullet wound on his forehead, but he suspected that might just be all in his imagination.

“Chill.”

He snapped his face up. He felt the weight of the Warden’s stare on him. He was not smiling.

“Would you like one as well?”

Chill stood so fast that his head spun anew, but he dutifully fought against it as he dashed back to where he presumed his place in line had been. The chains were cold and heavy around his ankles once more.

“Well,” the Warden said with a clap of his hands, his voice light, “shall we proceed to the next location?”

A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ rang out in near unison from the guards. They moved as a unit once more, the empty ankle-cuffs dragging heavily across the grass. Chill wondered how he should feel. Should he hold onto his disappointment that he had not reached the ball first, or should he be grateful? Had he reached it first, would the Warden have really shot him out of the tree? Was Rungo just particularly fragile, or would Chill have met the same fate if he had landed even slightly different than the way he had?

His persistent headache was not appreciating any of these questions that he had no ways of answering.

Chill swiped at the mess of his face with his shirt. His nose continued to drip, and it seemed that his headache was unlikely to fade any time soon, as well. He focused on the sounds again. The rustling of leaves was still there, as was the pattering water, and the croaking, and the birds, and the growling. _That_ sound was still there too, not as persistent in its call, but calling to him all the same.

He thought Rungo was rather fortunate, all things considered, to be laid to rest in place with such pretty noises.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know from canon that Frieza's mind powers do not allow him to sense energy. However, as Chill is blind, I imagine he would need to develop all the skills he could to survive. Thus, he can sense energy.


	9. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes depictions of violence.*

Chapter Eight: _The Truth_

The third ball was their next target.

Finding the second ball had been far more unpleasant than the first. The landscape had been incredibly dry and sandy, with a horrible heat that reminded him of home. The ball had also been buried deep beneath the burning sand, and they all had to wait for several minutes while the one called D3-22746, or ‘Carin’—a teenager with long, sharp claws and thick skin—dug through the dirt at rate much faster than Chill ever would have. Eventually, the teen had found the ball and they were on their way again, Chill hoping idly that they would not have to venture to environments like that one again.

It had been a bit humbling though. It seemed that Earth was not the utopian planet it had seemed to be so far. It had ugly places too.

He was still amazed by its diversity though, even more so once they reached the third location. The ground beneath his boots was soft and shifted with each step. It was odd trying to walk over it, his feet constantly sinking beneath the grainy earth and nearly slipping in their efforts. The air was clear, and yet was thick with the smell of salt and fish. 

(Something told him that the fish here was not like the fish back home. Those fish were little more than mutant abominations somehow managing to survive in the sewage and waste they swam in and should only be consumed as a last-ditch effort against starvation). 

There were some nice sounds here, too: the loud coos of birds, the harsh crash of waves—

"Water!" a small, feminine voice squeaked out. He heard the slapping of skin as she hurriedly covered her own mouth, though no one seemed bothered enough to reprimand her.

"The locator estimates that the dragon ball is about a mile deep in the water, sir," the guard said looking up from the device.

“Well then. _44258, 52452_.” The Warden regarded the girls, who snapped to attention. “It is to my knowledge that your people are natural swimmers and can hold their breath for hours at a time if need be, yes?”

"Yes sir!" the girls answered in unison, and whether their tones were laced with fear or overt anticipation was unclear.

At the Warden’s command, a guard retrieved two long ropes from their vehicle. He cinched one around each girls’ waist, the other ends firmly kept in his hand.

"You have fifteen minutes to find my ball," said the Warden. "If we pull you up and the ball is not within your possession, I cannot guarantee that your lives will be spared. Go now.”

"Yes sir!" they exclaimed again, the fear a bit clearer this time. Still, they dove into the water obediently. The fins of their feet kicked up saltwater in their wake, sprinkling Chill in the face.

Time passed in near silence, and an odd apprehension overcame him. He picked at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt and gnawed his bottom lip with his teeth. So far, he had had many things to occupy his attention with, like the many sounds of that strange forest, or the comfortable heat of the sun, or even the rumble of the vehicle as it glided through the sky. Here though, was practically nothing. The air was certainly unique: cool and uniquely smelling, but it was hardly anything exciting. Even the sounds here betrayed him—gentle lapping of water brushing against the bank of sand, centering his mind in a way he had been desperately trying to avoid.

He did not want to think about him. Them. _Anything_. He did not want to think about Vegeta, or his son, or that whorish man. He did not want to think about anything.

But it was so hard _not_ to. That very morning, he had woken up a bastard orphan, the pathetic remnant of two extinct royal lineages, the sole entity destined to atone for crimes he could never hope to redeem. That was who he had always been. And now what was he? A son? A _brother_ to a boy who called his carrier ‘father’, who shared his blood, who possibly shared his features, who was probably someone deeply cherished?

That answered his question, he supposed. He was not a son or a brother or any other pretty, romantic word his delusions could think up.

Chill was young, and he was stupid, but he was not completely naive. Despite what anyone had thought, he knew that he was not the son that Frieza praised the high heavens for, the heir that he had planned and pursued, the offspring that was revered in the eyes of the Cold family. 

Neeila was many things—loud, reckless, a lover of things called ‘stars’, and a hater of lukewarm food, to name a few—but dishonest was not one of them. When he asked her something, she always answered him, no matter how brutal the answer might be. 

When he asked where he had come from, she told him that he had allegedly been found in an abandoned base, left alone in an incubator where he had spent the entirety of the first year of his life in the care of Frieza Loyalists. He had then—according to her in a tone that was undeniably disgusted—been sentenced to Tene’mareen to answer for the crimes of his father, for there was apparently ‘no justice in killing a babe in its nursing capsule’.

When he had asked if his parents had been married like hers, she told him that his carrier served his sire. She told him that his parents were enemies in the end and had probably always had been. 

When he had asked her if his parents had ever wanted him, she told him, in the kindest words she could, of the rumors that seemed most logical: that he was little more than a half-bred mistake. 

He had not doubted the truth that Vegeta never wanted him. It had always been a fact. There was no reason why that would not change now. He was just as much of an orphan as he had always been.

Chill picked with more vigor at the hem of his shirt. He wondered just how similar he was to the tyrant that sired him. Did he look like him aside from his eyes? He did not think he acted like him that much. As long as he remembered, he never really had the desire to harm others. He killed things sometimes, like the rodents and insects he found to fight against the hunger that tore through his gut, but everyone did that; he was not special in that regard. He was quiet, never spoke unless he had too or Neeila prodded him enough. He never whined or complained, even when his muscles would tear, and his sweat would fill his mouth, and his brain hurt with the effort to continue. He obeyed every command given to him. He did everything he could to be a good boy.

Would Vegeta find some pride in that at least? That the spawn he had forcibly grown in his body was a good boy? No, he probably would not be. He was probably ashamed that his blood created such a disgraceful creature.

Still, it was a nice thought.

He snapped his head up at the loud splash of water. He could hear the two females gasping for breath as they were dragged to shore, their little bodies drenched and shivering.

“Well?” the Warden questioned.

Neither said a word, though one girl held up her hand, presenting the shimmering ball. Her arm collapsed in exhaustion once it was taken from her.

"Sir, the other party has just contacted us. They say that they've almost procured their third ball," a guard speaks up, tapping on the communication pad in his hands.

"Tell them to wait for us at the landing site and we'll meet them there once we find the last ball," the Warden answered.

" _Woah_ , what kind of car is that?" Chill’s attention snapped to the left, as did the others. Barely any distance away were three human teenagers. Two with dark skin, one that was pale, all wearing hardly any clothing at all.

"What business do you have here?" the Warden asked, and all Chill could hear in his voice was annoyance.

“I should be asking you that,” one of them, a boy, said. "You know this beach is private property, right? My father will be very upset if he sees you here, so I suggest you leave.”

The Warden grinned. “Do you now? And just what will this _father_ do to me if I decide to stay?”

The boy floundered for a moment, before anger took over his face. “He’ll call the police on your ass, that’s what he’ll do! What the hell is your problem?”

“Justin,” the girl said with warning in her voice.

The Warden said nothing for a while, watching the three humans with an odd interest in his eyes. The affronted boy bristled.

“What, you think he won’t really do it?!” He growled, reaching into the pocket of his shorts. His hand lifted out a small, rectangular device.

His movements were cut off by the bullet tearing into his leg.

The boy stumbled; his expression shocked before he hit the ground. His scream rang out loud through the air, the once peaceful seagulls springing into the air in a panicked frenzy.

“ _Justin_!” his companions cried out, falling to their knees beside him.

“ _Oh shit, oh shit_...” the other boy mumbled, transfixed by the blood that oozed from his friend’s body.

The girl’s eyes were frantic, her eyes desperately searching for the device the wounded boy had been pulling from his pocket. Once her gaze locked on it—tossed a few feet away—she leapt for it, her braids flying around her face like a whirlwind as she gathered the device in her hand.

Another bullet, this time going straight through the girl’s hand, shattered both her bones and the device’s screen.

A lot of screaming came after that, and Chill could not help but to shield his sensitive ears. A pitiful struggle ensued as the guards gathered them up, sand soaring everywhere as they kicked and fought. Then, Chill heard several cracks of weapons against skin, and more shouting, then moaning, and crying, and whimpering. Then hardly anything at all.

“Tie them up in the back,” the Warden ordered.

"Sir, are you sure you want to make these humans prisoners?" a guard spoke up hesitantly. The inevitable backlash went unsaid. Taking prisoners without request from the planet that convicted them violated several laws and regulations. Taking prisoners from a planet that was not represented by any planetary organization could be cause for a prison shutdown.

(No one had to mention the key fact that this specific unaccounted-for planet was protected by at least two unfriendly saiyans.)

The Warden nodded, a blissful smile on his face. “Those who would dare ruin this wonderful mood of mine deserve no trial, don’t you agree? Besides, they may come in handy later.”

Nothing else was said, and Chill tried not to be disappointed that the once clean, salty air was now tainted with the scent of blood.

* * *

Shivering was an odd thing, Chill learned.

He had never experienced shivering before. Tene'mareen was an extremely hot planet. Its thick, cloudy atmosphere trapped in heat from both suns of their solar systems, and rainfall from actual water as opposed to literal acid was few and far between. There was no such thing as a “breeze”; all gusts of wind were heavy and unbearably warm, like opening an oven door right in front of your face.

He had trembled before, of course. While his body did not often feel fear, he felt stress and fatigue just like anyone else. Furthermore, he had experienced illness and fevers before. However, for his body’s core temperature to drop so low that it resorted to the involuntary reflex of his skeletal muscles shaking to create warmth through expended energy to maintain homeostasis? 

It was incredibly odd, to say the least.

Aside from the cold, this place was also rather loud. The wind was howling so harshly he could hear it even inside the vessel. His ears cringed at the raucous clatter of the other prisoner’s teeth, and the hisses that slipped out of their blue-tinted lips. He could hear the rough scrub of skin on skin as they desperately rubbed at their arms, trying to hold in all of the little warmth they had.

They all seemed miserable.

Chill, on the other hand? well, he was feeling... _something_. He was _cold_ , he would not deny that the feeling was unpleasant. He was shivering too, and had goosebumps sprinkled all over his skin but, well...

To put it bluntly, his discomfort seemed nowhere near as bad as anyone else, and that was _especially_ odd.

 _Ice-jin_ , he thought, and felt disgusted.

"S-Sir,” a guard spoke, professionalism broken by the tremble in his voice, “the locator claims that the dragon ball is up that mountain.”

“Send out Chill and the winged-one!” the Warden snapped, his voice misting out in front of his very displeased face.

Chill hopped to attention the moment his name was called. He held still as they unlocked his ankle-cuffs again, and as they graced him with a thick and heavy cloak, before sliding out of the vehicle. The wind was nearly deafening without the barrier. 

Oddly enough, the ground crunched under his feet, his weight dragging him down until he was ankle deep in whatever this strange substance was. Even more odd than the ground was the... _things_ , falling onto his face, much too slowly to be raindrops. He tipped his head up to the sky, and the cold sprinkles plopped all over his face, leaving little puddles of moisture on his skin. There was something familiar about this substance, probably from a story Neeila told him, but he could not remember the word she used to describe it.

Impulsively, he stuck his tongue out. Some of the sky droplets landed on it and they tasted like water.

Suddenly, he had never been so thirsty in his life.

He resisted though (and it took every fiber of his being to do so) and took a deep breath.

_Good boy... Good boy..._

He could hear the Warden’s voice out loud, but the instructions were not for him. He was speaking to the winged girl—Alexi, Chill thought her name might be—ordering her to fly herself and Chill up the mountain. The ball should be 600ft upwards from here, he informed, but they were to search the entire mountain, if necessary, and had half an hour to do so.

He could sense when the girl turned to him, her glare piercing him deeply. He swallowed and tipped his head down.

“Turn around!” she demanded, and he scrambled to do just that. It was then he realized that she would, in fact, have to touch him to fly him anywhere—a detail he supposed should have already been at the forefront of his mind.

He could feel her body press against his back. He felt her arms wrap tight around his waist. He suddenly felt very queasy.

He could not dwell on it though because all at once there was a _whoosh_ and his stomach was flipping inside out and his feet were dangling and he was in the air and oh, Chill definitely did not like _this_.

He screamed.

He screamed and struggled, digging his black nails deep into her arms. _Down_ , he thought, _down, down, **down**._

“Stop it!” she shouted, and he tried his very best to do so, but his heart had never pounded so hard, and he could feel tears budding and oh, he really did not like this, not at all. This was nothing like climbing, because no matter how high he got, he could trust in himself and the rock he clung to and even when he fell before it had happened too suddenly for him to be afraid. Here there was nothing. Nothing but him, a girl who hated him, and a fall that would certainly kill him.

He was breathing so hard and yet he could not catch his breath. His chest felt heavy. He was dizzy. He was lightheaded. His palms were sweaty. His cheeks were hot. His legs, his arms, his hands were trembling. His heart was racing. He was terrified.

 _I’m going to die,_ he thought. _I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to—_

“Calm down! I’m not going to drop you, dammit!”

_—die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m—_

And then, his feet were on the ground.

His knees failed him. The powder was cold on his face and arms, but his body was too heavy to move. He cradled himself there, shaking and moaning.

He tried to breath, and suddenly threw up.

* * *

He was not sure how much time had passed since then.

Eventually, he was on his feet again, weak, but capable. He had swallowed the clean powder to help clear the foul taste from his mouth, and once he was through with that, they walked on.

Alexi had not spoken to him once in all that time. She was small, his footprints even managing to dwarf hers. He still shied away from the anger he felt radiating from her tiny form. She was eerily quiet, but he could guess just what she wanted to scream at him. Probably something like _you nearly killed us both!_ Or perhaps something regarding all time he had wasted with his little episode.

He was embarrassed enough—another emotion he did not often feel—and tried his best not to provoke her. He was feeling other things as well, like confusion, and perhaps even a bit of concern for himself.

He tried not to dwell on the fear he was also feeling. He did not know just what exactly happened to him, but whatever it was, it was _scary_ , and he never wanted to go through that again.

He wondered just how imperative it was that they flew back down.

She stopped and he did too. He imagined that she was squinting her eyes, trying to more clearly see whatever it was that had caught her attention.

“I see it,” she said. He said nothing and followed the sound of her steps when they started up again.

The cacophony of the wind lessened when he stepped into the large, cave-like structure she led him into. It was much quieter in here, and he found that the thick powder beneath his feet gave away to solid rock.

He stopped beside her as she stooped over. He could hear the tiny scrap the ball made as she picked it up from the ground.

He turned to head back the way they had come. He was stepping towards the mouth of the cave, his nerves worrying over the returning flight that he knew he could not avoid, when he noticed that she was not following him. He quirked his brow at her, but still she did not move, her eyes contemplating the ball clenched tightly in her hand.

 _What are you doing?_ he wanted to ask. He did not, but the question burned alongside the flaming impatience and apprehension in his gut. He was not sure how much more time they had to waste here. They could have already gone over the allotted time given, and Chill did not want to know what the punishment for such a misgiving would be.

His already agitated nerves practically erupted at the loud _crack_ that ricocheted around the cave walls. He felt the weight of his body shift into a defensive position.

_Crack! Crack!_

A growl brewed in his throat. What was that noise? Was something about to attack him? Was it big enough to kill him?

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

And then he realized— _the girl_!

 _Crack! Crack!_ Came from where she was smashing the ball against the locator locked around her ankle.

She couldn’t be...

She was. It seemed that she, like Chill, knew that the promise of gifted freedom was a lie. 

Still, Chill was a good boy, and could not let her do this. He rushed towards her, protest sitting in his throat, but it was too late. He could hear the final _crack_ before the metal crumpled uselessly to the ground.

He also felt the sharp pain when she gunned the ball at him, nailing him square in one of his covered eyes.

He cried out, his hands covering his throbbing eye as his body fell back. He made one last ditch effort to stop her, holding out his hand in hopes that he would trip her. She only stomped on it though— _ouch_ —and sprinted right past him.

He grabbed the ball, leaped to his feet, and dashed from the cave. He did not bother chasing her, but rather turned back the way they had come. He followed the depressions in the powder made by their footsteps as far as they led, skidding to halt when they ended, where the smell of his vomit still tainted the cold air.

If this was where they first landed, then the Warden and the guards were most likely at the bottom. He had no way of knowing if they could see him, so he made no effort in getting their attention. Instead, he locked his hands behind his neck, draped his arms over his temples and forehead, curled his body, and threw himself down the cliff.

He was idly thankful that the hill was covered completely in powder and not rock. The descent was just as jarring and brutal, but at least he would probably be spared from any worrying injuries.

He heard shouting when he reached the bottom, his body rolling a few feet more until the flat plane bade him to stop. He heard the crunch of snow under boots growing nearer and he quickly held up the ball. Hopefully, its presence would prevent them from punishing him before he could inform them of the defector.

The ball was snatched from his grip. “Where is the other?” the Warden’s voice boomed over him.

Chill could not sense her lifeforce from here, but he _did_ know that she had turned left when she retreated from the cave earlier. He pointed in that direction.

He wondered what the guards saw when they looked. She must have taken to the sky by now, under the impression that her cover was clear. She was small, especially from this distance, but her wings were like midnight drapes against the pure powder. Chill did not know this, but she could be seen if you knew exactly where to look.

Chill figures that the Warden found her because he could hear the clang of his long-nosed gun unhooking from his waist. A moment later, there was a shot, and a moment after that, there was a scream. She was still screaming even when she hit the ground, so Chill figured that the shot was not meant to kill. He doubted they intended to kill her at all.

“Good boy, Chill,” the Warden told him with a pat on his head as the guards rushed towards where the girl was desperately trying to flap her wings through the pain of her dislocated shoulder and broken legs. Elation bloomed in his chest and he ducked his head to hide his smile. The Warden stepped away from him, and the girl started pleading through her sobs.

As her wails rang throughout the frozen tundra, Chill remembered that Neeila had called this watery powder _snow_.

* * *

“Vegeta!” Bulma’s voice called as she suddenly rounded the corner.

Vegeta stood to his feet, immediately uneased by the urgency in her tone. It had not been long since the Tenas had left their home. He had seen on Bulma's face that even she could sense the offness of Ziloh when he had followed Vegeta inside, though she remained perfectly polite as she compiled a list of herbs and the coordinates of where they could be found for the man.

Bulma had taken one look at both his and Kakarot's faces when they returned, and thankfully had not pressed, despite the questions he knew she had. She had not said anything about Ziloh and the Tenas at all, yet he knew instantly that whatever had distressed her, it involved them.

“What?” he demanded.

She held out the radar for him to see. “The balls are all in one place and are _leaving_ the _planet_!”

He regards the radar, before snatching it from her. He throws open the window behind him and kicks off so hard that the sill cracks.

 _Damn it,_ Vegeta thought, burning rage fueling him as he cut through the air like a scalpel through flesh. _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!_

He senses Kakarot following him, but he pays him no mind, too busy wondering how he could have been such an _idiot_.

How _dare_ they lie to him? How dare they make a fool of him? Kakarot’s morality be damned, he would kill every last one of them for daring to cross him!

He could see them now, their ship already in the air but still not safe from him. He was nearly there now, so close he could see every terrified expression staring back through the glass, and he would snuff out each and every one of them, from the Warden to each guard to every damned prisoner. Even that one with the blindfold, who was facing the window like all the others, but his hand was reaching up, and his bony fingers were pulling the blindfold upward and—

Vegeta saw red eyes, and everything stopped.

_“It is dead.”_

_"My, my, Vegeta. Don’t you think a father has a right to hold his own child?"_

_Gone... Gone..._

The exhaust from the ship was suddenly consuming him. He was coughing and he was falling. Kakarot was catching him.

“Vegeta?” he thought he heard Kakarot say, but it was so quiet against everything else.

_He’s mine... He’s mine..._

_“It is dead.”_

_He shivered and turned away as Frieza’s blood red eyes looked up at him._

He saw the ship growing smaller and smaller into the sky. _He saw a tiny, pale tail wrapped around his wrist_. He saw Kakarot’s dark, worried eyes. _He saw blood red eyes._

“Vegeta? Vegeta!” he heard. He saw the ship disappear, and then he saw nothing at all.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Tene’mareen character names are spelled with five letters, except for Neeila, whose name has six letters. If you ask your local English teacher, they will tell you it is symbolic of her importance. I will do my authorly duty, and make sure I never actually confirm that I simply liked her name being spelled that way.


	10. The Forgotten

Chapter Nine: _The Forgotten_

**_The Past:_ **

Zarbon would like to think that as the emperor of the northern galaxy’s right-hand man, he deserved far better than to be delivering news like some lowly messenger boy.

He knew better than to question Lord Frieza—when Frieza commanded something of you, you did it. He just did not see why he had to be the one to deliver this particular piece of news. Did his Lord expect the saiyans to become hostile? Zarbon supposed that would make sense; after all, he had seen on numerous occasion a parent’s strength increase to alarmingly extreme heights when in defense of their children. Combine that with someone as prideful as Vegeta, and his bodyguard who would lick the very ground he walked on if he asked? Zarbon could see this going ugly very fast.

Zarbon’s face was twisted, but he was not nervous as he stalked down the vacant hallway. He was not scared of Vegeta or his over-sized pet oaf. Still, he would rather not have to deal with the effort it would take to put down rabid monkeys today.

After a few more minutes of striding down hallways, he reached the medical ward. He waited as the medic outside typed in the passcode, and when the door slid open, he crossed the threshold with no hesitation in his step. The room smelled of antiseptic and was eerily clean, as he supposed all examination rooms were. He thought he saw a dark red speck on the tile out the corner of his eye, but his sight was focused on the figure standing short in front of him.

Vegeta must have noticed him enter, but he made no indication that he had. He continued with tugging a gold-tipped boot on to his right foot with no care at all for the superior officer standing behind him, though Vegeta never had been one to show proper respect to his betters.

Despite the way he was facing, Zarbon could see that his stomach was still swollen underneath the tight spandex.

The sight brings him back to the task at hand. "I am here to inform you that the thing is dead," he said evenly, though his muscles still tense without his consent. He was irritated at himself for reacting in such a way, though he supposed it was better to be cautious. One could never be too careful around savages, even royal ones.

Moments went by in silence. Zarbon’s spine prickled with unwelcome nerves but whether it was Vegeta's intent to lull him into a false sense of security remained to be seen. The saiyan carried on as if he had not even heard him, tugging on his other boot, then each of his gloves.

It was as Vegeta was lifting his armor over his head that Zarbon felt anger bloom alongside the tension. He opened his lips, ready to snap and snarl but Vegeta abruptly cut him off.

“Was that all?” he asked, his voice bland. The tone caught Zarbon off-guard. He has heard Vegeta pretend to kiss ass with more sentiment than that.

“I—yes,” he answered, and cursed himself twice over for his spluttering.

Vegeta said nothing else so Zarbon swiftly turned on his heel and marched from the room. He left so fast that he did not see the way his hands shake, did not see the way his nails dug deep into the skin of his palms, did not see the tears that beaded in his black eyes.

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

When Vegeta woke from the sleep he did not remember falling into, he did not know where he was. He grasped at his memories, but they failed him as well. His head felt heavy as did his eyelids as he struggled to lift both. His ears were ringing, and his—

_A UFO descending from the sky._

_A distantly familiar man—Ziloh, warden of Division III._

_Kakarot’s anger, burning hot like the sun in his eyes._

_The boy._

Vegeta’s eyes flew open.

His chest suddenly clenched tightly, and his hand immediately flew to grasp at the spot. He gasped out raggedly, and it was only then that he realized he had not been breathing.

No.

_Dirty, dark hair, swallowing a tiny head in a forest of spikes._

No.

_Twin lines cutting down his cheeks like scars._

No.

_Eyes redder than blood, piercing through him like his body was paper and the gaze a scorching knife._

No—

There was a hand on his chest, tightening around the fabric of his spandex. The hand was small, soft, and undeniably Bulma’s.

Her touch was abruptly gone however, and replaced by larger, rougher hands on his shoulders, jostling him back and forth, practically knocking him off of whatever surface he was on—Kakarot.

He batted roughly at the hands on his shoulder and winced at the loud cry of ‘ _ouch_!’ that shot through his ears like a bullet. He groaned as he focused his vision and found himself peering up at both Bulma and Kakarot’s pale faces shadowed by the light shining from the ceiling. Then, another face appeared, little and tan and unashamedly worried.

“Dad!” Trunks cried, lunging forward. Tiny hands fisted on his abdomen, two wide, blue eyes pushing so far into his face that they nearly melded into one.

“Give him some space, kiddo,” Yamcha said (and oh how wonderful was it that he was here too. Were the Namekian and short, bald one here as well? Certainly, no party could be complete without them) and Trunks obeyed. The boy sat back on his heels, though the child-like anxiousness did not leave his face.

“Here, sweetie,” Bulma said, lifting Vegeta’s head with one hand and offering a clear glass with the other. He nudged her touch away and sat himself up, snatching the offering from her. He downed the water in one gulp, and it sat like a log in his throat.

“I fainted,” he said, and whether that was to them or to himself he was unsure.

Kakarot nodded. “Yeah, you blacked out after all that smoke hit you. I Instant Transmissioned us back here. You’ve only been out for a few minutes, though.”

He groaned and slumped his body against the cushions. He rolled his head back until he faced the ceiling and closed his eyes tightly.

“Vegeta...” Bulma trailed off, her curiosity and concern dripping from her tone. He ignored her.

“Vegeta,” this time it was Kakarot, “did it... did it have something to do with that little boy?”

Vegeta shot up, rounding on him so suddenly that the fool actually flinched. “ _What_?”

“Well, I mean, you saw his eyes, didn’t you? I thought you passed out because he had some weird powers or something. It would make sense why he was blindfolded. That’s why you passed out, right?” Kakarot suddenly leaned in a calculating look in his eyes. “Or... did you know him, maybe?”

Did he know him? No, Vegeta did not. He did not know a single thing about that boy. He did not know that boy who was tiny like his half-human son. He did not know that boy with the underfed and uncared for body. He did not know that boy who was horrified of touch like a beaten dog, who did not even bother to wipe the dirt from his face after he was thrown into it. He did not know that boy who already had one foot in the grave and was just waiting for an invitation to jump in altogether.

He may have known that hair, though, it tickled at his memory. Those thick spikes the color of ink just as his were, that held strong despite never knowing the expensive shampoo that Bulma insisted he used or even so much as a hairbrush, patterned intricately in a way that reminded him vaguely of the _already_ vague memory of his mother, if it had been just a tad longer in length. He might know those lines on his face and that bare, broken tail that hung limp behind his feet. He may have even known that scent too: dull and muted, barely grazing the edge of his senses, but familiar.

Those eyes. He _knew_ those eyes.

 _He is dead,_ he thought desperately _. They told me he was dead._

_And you believed them._

Out the corner of his vision, he saw Bulma and Yamcha share a glance. Then, minute nodding.

“Hey, kiddo,” Yamcha said, smiling down at Vegeta's son. “The parts for the drone came in the mail this morning. We should probably start building it now if we want to get it done by this evening.”

Trunks whipped over to him, uncertainty in his eyes. “But...”

Yamcha laid a hand on the top of his head. “Look, kiddo, there’s no need to worry about your dad. He’s A-okay, see?” He theatrically jerked Trunks’ head around to face Vegeta, eliciting a small giggle.

“There, now why don’t we hurry on out and get to building? I hope you’re ready to explain it all to me—I don’t know my ass from my elbow when it comes to all this technical stuff.”

That earned another laugh. Trunks stood at Yamcha’s prompt, falling in step beside him. He paused at the archway though, peering back at them with that same concern again. His eyes met Vegeta’s.

“Feel better, Dad.”

Vegeta furrowed his brow and felt very annoyed but nodded all the same. Trunks dashed off then, Yamcha shooting them his own look before following after him.

Vegeta turned his eyes back up to the ceiling, refusing to shy away from the bright glow of the light ahead. It couldn’t be, he thought. It just couldn’t be. That _thing_ had died. That was the most logical conclusion. Why would they have kept him alive? Why would they have bothered to lie about it?

Perhaps they did not want to incur the wrath of a saiyan whose child could still be saved, a voice that sounded disgustingly hopeful whispered to him. If it were any other time, that thought would have filled him with smug pride over the kind of fear he could inspire. Now, all it made him feel was... really, he could not say what he felt. In any case, it still did not answer why they would have left him alive at all.

Vegeta did not know what to think, to feel, to believe. His thoughts were so jumbled, like gnats stuck in a jar. He needed more time. He needed time to think, to properly determine just what exactly was _going on._

He glanced at Bulma and Kakarot, averting his gaze once he registered their open expressions of concern and curiosity, and he realized he had no such luxury.

“He might be my son,” he said finally, straight to the point with a voice carefully blank. Despite his tone, his heart pounded the moment the words left his lips. A bolt of electricity soared through his veins, and he had to clench his hands to keep them from shaking. 

He could deny it in his thoughts, but the moment the words came out, he knew it was true.

A beat of silence. Then:

“ _What_?!” the two shouted as one, both jumping well within his personal space, as if the extra inches would improve their hearing.

He sneered at them before turning his face disdainfully to the side. “It is a possibility.”

“B-But...” Kakarot stuttered, “but how?”

Vegeta clenched his jaw and wondered how he should answer such a question.

Before he could decide, he heard the loud whoosh of air banging and compressing around charged energy. Hardly a moment later, he heard the crash of the front door being forced open, then the desperate pounding of feet against the hard, tile floors. Finally, the intruders rounded the archway of the sitting room, gasping frantically down at them.

“Piccolo and Dende?” Kakarot exclaimed. Vegeta trailed his eyes over to his wife, expecting an agitated cry of something along the lines of _‘did you just break into my house?_ ’ or _‘you could have knocked!_ ’ but he found her eyes were just watching them with a very vague expression, almost as if her mind was trying to split between two places at once. 

He has never seen a look like that on her face before.

“Goku,” Piccolo said, gruffly. “Good, you’re here too.”

“Er, what’s up?”

Dende, stumbling out from behind Piccolo’s cloak, shouted: “The dragon balls are gone!”

A beat of silence.

“Kakarot,” Vegeta said slowly. The man in question cowered under his piercing glare. “You let them get _away_?”

“I was worried about you!” he defended. “You just fainted out of nowhere. I thought something was wrong with you! After I caught you and made sure you were still _breathing_ the ship was already gone, and I didn’t want to leave you!”

Vegeta held back a growl, irritation spiking through his veins. He basked in the familiarity of it. “The balls are on their way to Tene'mareen, I presume?”

“They are!” came a shrill voice, echoing about the room as if it were coming from every direction.

Kakarot tipped his head up to the ceiling. “King Kai?”

Vegeta did growl then, still annoyed by the ringing in his ears. “You’re tracking them, then?”

“I am, and you need to go get those balls back right away!” he shouted again, though quietly mumbling apologies as the Namekians groaned from the volume.

"I take it you already know the thieves then?" Piccolo questioned once he stopped rubbing his ears. 

He allowed Kakarot to explain the events of the last few hours. Once the man was finished, he admitted, “I don’t understand. Why did they steal them? If they needed them so badly why didn’t they just ask?”

Vegeta was instantly reminded of how much of an idiot the other man was, and yet somehow felt an odd sense of comfort at the familiar behavior.

“Because they intend to keep them, Kakarot,” Vegeta told him. “Despite your fanciful delusions, in the real world no one would assume they have any sort of right to use any object that does not belong to them or their people—especially something as powerful as the dragon balls—just because they asked nicely. Surely you’re not that naive.”

Kakarot pouted at him, confirming that he was in fact, that naive.

To King Kai, Kakarot said, “In any case, I’ll get them back.” He clenched his fists. “I knew there was something wrong with them from the start. I can’t believe I let this happen right under my nose!”

Vegeta wondered if he meant that to be accusatory. He would not delude himself into thinking that Kakarot did not blame him for this mess. Perhaps not so much for fainting (he was too soft for that) but Kakarot had made his displeasure at Vegeta’s method of dealing with the Tenas quite clear.

Vegeta was not sure if he regretted his choices then or not. He wanted those people away from his home and antagonizing them over their cultural differences was not the way to do that. Still though, he would have to agree with Kakarot—it _was_ ridiculous how flawlessly they had stolen their most prized possessions.

_And they paraded another one right under your nose, didn't they? Had him dancing right in your face and you didn't even know it._

He shook his head hard to chase the voice away, to chase the image of the boy away.

Bulma caught his eye as he did so, her blank, pensive look both odd and eerie. If she had something to say, though, her chance was stolen by a deep groan. Dende’s teeth grit around the noise he made, his sharp claws digging fruitlessly into his temples.

“What’s wrong with you, Dende?” Kakarot asked.

“Th-the dragon balls,” he replied, his eyes shutting against his pain. “Their energy reacts violently the farther they get from the planet. That is how I knew they were gone in the first place.”

“Reacting?” Vegeta perked up in question. “What are you talking about?”

“I—when dragon balls are created, their spiritual energies are tied to two things: me, and the planet they reside in,” he began raggedly, as if every word was forcibly dragged from his core. “That is why once they are used, they spread out across the far corners of the Earth, and not the entire universe. If the balls leave this atmosphere, their energy becomes unbalanced, uncontrolled.”

He slumped back against the chair cushions. It was unbefitting of a Guardian, and Vegeta remembered idly that he was Gohan’s age—very much still a boy.

Vegeta was in the middle of a spontaneous and unwelcome fantasy of Gohan as a guardian (a thought he shuddered at) when Dende finished with, “Only one ball gone would perhaps not cause me so much worry, but all of them? The possibilities are endless and all of them are catastrophic.”

Vegeta’s frown deepened. He thought back on a memory then, when Kakarot had transmitted them to the world of the Kai back during the mess with Buu, and the old Kai had initially ixnayed their plan to resurrect the earthlings with the Namekian dragon balls.

_“Those balls are strictly for the edification of a very advanced and peaceful race! They aren't meant to be used anywhere except on their own planet. Using those balls elsewhere could upset the natural evolutionary process of the universe!”_

He had thought it had simply been the stubbornness of a paranoid, old pervert—especially with how easily the Kai had given in after Kakarot made _promises he had no business making_ —though perhaps there had been some credibility to his words after all.

“Catastrophic how?”

Dende met Vegeta's eyes. “Catastrophic as in—if they manage to activate the balls on their planet, the spiritual tension could destroy both of our worlds.” 

“ _What_!” Bulma shrieked, seeming all the more like herself for it. “You can’t be serious!”

“Dende, are you absolutely sure about this?” Kakarot asked, leaning forward so much he was practically in the Guardian’s lap.

“Y-Yes,” he answered leaning away, flustered.

Piccolo dropped his hand to Kakarot’s shoulder, forcing him back. “How long do we have, King Kai?”

“Well,” he began, and oh how Vegeta _hated_ his voice, “at this pace I’d say roughly a year. If they manage to activate them, however, the amount of time either planet has is indefinite. It could be hours. It could be minutes. It could be instantaneous.”

“Oh man...” Kakarot trailed off.

“Well, the good news is that I think Earth would last a bit longer, should the situation ever arise.”

“Oh, so we’ll have an extra thirty seconds to contemplate our demise,” Bulma cheered sarcastically. “That’s so helpful.”

The Kai was effectively cowed.

“Well, what if we get them back?” Kakarot spoke up. “That would make everything go back to normal, right?”

Dende peered up at him and gave an exhausted nod.

Kakarot stood. “Well, let’s do it then.”

Once properly on his feet, he pointed two of his fingers and brought them to his forehead. Piccolo stepped closer with his hand raised to grab onto him, until he peered back at the Dende. The little guardian moaned with his head buried in his knees, and Piccolo, it seemed, decided to stay.

Vegeta thought for a second, a long second, before standing and dropping his hand to Kakarot’s shoulder. His heart began to pound in his chest, the thump of it resounding in his ears. He could feel the thrum all the way down to his fingertips, and he wondered if Kakarot could feel the burn of them through his Gi.

Several moments passed, yet they still stood in the living room.

“Kakarot,” Vegeta said, trying to catch his eyes. Kakarot, to his credit, hardly seemed to notice that he was there, his brows furrowed in intense concentration.

Then, finally—“ _Dammit_!”

Everyone jumped. Vegeta did not even have a chance to berate himself for the reaction, still to shocked to hear the curse spat from Kakarot’s lips with such vehemence.

Kakarot was seething, his wide, black eyes shining with loathing down at the carpet as if the bundles of faux fur had killed his mother. The muscles in his arms bulged as his free fist clenched, the effort so immense that one of his knuckles were bone white. The fingers on his forehead were pressed so hard Vegeta would not be surprised if two little bruises were not already forming. His jaw was also clenched, and Vegeta wondered idly how much longer he could keep the force up before he shattered all of his teeth.

“What the hell, Kakarot?” Vegeta snarled.

“I don’t know their Ki signatures. I can't— _dammit_." His hands moved to fist at his hair. “I can’t find them!”

It was quiet. For long, long moments, it was quiet.

Vegeta took in every face, and all of them were the same. Even Dende, worn-down as he was, stared at Kakarot with wide eyes, his jaw dropped as close to the floor as it could get. Kakarot’s anger flowed from his body in waves as every second passed, burning through the room like an enclosed furnace, and still no one said a thing; their shock a vice around their throats.

Vegeta had had enough.

“Sit down, clown,” he said with a rough push to his chest. Despite his fury, Kakarot went without a fight, his body toppling like a house of cards against the couch cushions. His eyes were still burning holes into the carpet.

Vegeta crossed his arms. “Now calm down. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

And just like that he deflated, a cool river of calmness washing away the fury from his body. He unclenched his hair—several strands caught between his fingers—and dropped his arms down between his knees like a chastised child. Traces of guilt swam through his eyes.

“You—you’re right I... I’m sorry.”

If possible, the other’s jaws dropped even further. Vegeta bared his teeth at the apology. “Save it. Now, explain.”

Kakarot released a rough breath. “I can’t find them. I don’t... I don’t remember their Ki signatures.”

“What do you mean you don’t remember? How can you just forget?” Piccolo growled, though his words were etched in hesitance.

“I worded that wrong.” He tipped his head back, staring blank-faced up at the ceiling. “I never really knew them—especially not individually. I don’t bother memorizing the Ki of every person I meet—that would be way too many. I just wanted them to leave; I didn’t think about whether or not I’d have to track them down.”

“Oh this... this is bad...” King Kai said from the heavens. Just as before, the temperature of the room fluctuated, though now it was under the crushing weight of disappointment and dwindling hope.

Vegeta was quite thoroughly done with these people.

“Just how many pity parties can you people stand to throw in one day? In case you’ve all forgotten, there is a perfectly functional ship sitting right in the fucking yard. Honestly, your dependency on that damned technique is sickening.” He turned his nose up at them as if to prove just that.

Dende blinked at him before breaking out into a wide smile. “You’re right! We won’t be getting the dragon balls back as soon as I would like, but we still have a chance nonetheless!”

Vegeta huffed. Piccolo narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, great plan, Vegeta." His voice was gruff with suspicion. “Though I can’t imagine why _you_ want to go. From what I’ve heard, the most these guys have to offer are guns and whips. Not exactly what you would consider a challenge.”

Vegeta froze, if only for a moment (long enough for his heart to begin it’s pounding once more), before snarling up at him. He turned his gaze away sharply and was nearly shocked when it was Kakarot’s eyes that met his own.

Kakarot’s mouth stayed close, his voice betraying nothing, but Vegeta could hear his question loud and clear, shining through his eyes as if the very words were printed across his irises.

_Can I tell them for you? What can I tell them?_

Vegeta huffed through his nose and turned away from him as well, his eyes trailing towards the windows. Outside, he could see Yamcha and Trunks digging their hands around inside a large cardboard box.

_Whatever_ , he thought, despite the blood that roared through his veins.

Kakarot nodded seemingly to himself before looking up at Piccolo. “Vegeta wants to go because there is a little boy there that he thinks might be his son.”

And just like that it was out, annoyingly blunt, and yet natural, as if Kakarot made discoveries like this every day. Still though, his words did nothing to remedy the pounding in Vegeta's chest—in fact, they only made it worse, the thump growing so vast it actually brought him pain. But why? Why was his body trembling with every beat? Was it fear? But what did he possibly have to be afraid of? Why was this effecting him this way? 

Why did he wish he could be anywhere but here?

That thought brought him to a pause, and it was now outrage that coursed through him.

_Why am I acting like this? This is not me. Stop acting like this!_

He turned back to them, challenge burning in his eyes. He took in their wide eyes and dropped jaws and set them aflame with his gaze. He dared them to speak. He dared them to bring light to the questions and accusations resting on their tongues, but his stony visage held no cracks—whether any words would manage to break through remained a mystery.

This situation was not optimal, he acknowledged. He wanted to leave, to collect his thoughts in the comfort of solitude. He wanted to run through everything that happened to him that day, from start to present, to properly understand just where everything went wrong, and what he needed to do to fix it all. He could not do it here, and he hated to wait.

“O-oh,” Dende began awkwardly, blushing and looking away when Vegeta’s gaze landed on him. “That is... unexpected...”

“And you did not know this, King Kai?” Piccolo asked judgmentally, any shock erased from his face as if had never been there.

“I... It’s impossible for me to keep track of every being in the North quadrant, you know...” he said, though his words are hesitant, as if he were unsure himself.

 _He knew_ , Vegeta realized. Perhaps not the entire story, but any holes in the plot had undoubtedly just been filled. Vegeta wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Dende opened his mouth—what he possibly had to say Vegeta was unsure—but his voice was cut off by a louder, feminine, “Who?”

Vegeta whipped around towards his wife. He took in the clasped hands in her lap and the downward tilt of her head, and he was struck with the sudden thought that in all of the time that he has known her, this was the longest he has ever witnessed her quiet.

“Who what?”

It seemed that she was done with her silence. The bright tresses of her hair bobbed as she snapped her head up, determined ire captivating her face. Her unsaid words practically fell from her lips before she even had a chance to open them, and he already knew that whatever her question would be, he would not want to answer it.

“Who is his mother?”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have simply taken the quote from the Elder Kai out of context and thus may have possibly made up the stuff about the dragon balls. The concept didn’t seem too farfetched to me, though.


	11. The Ache

Chapter Ten: _The Ache_

“Who is his mother?” Bulma had asked, the demand in her tone already telling him she would not be so easily swayed from receiving an answer. He was right when he expected her question would be the very last one he wanted to deal with.

_Damn you, woman. Damn you._

The silence now was even heavier than before. The others shuffled awkwardly, their eyes darting everywhere and anywhere that was not the two of them, and yet her eyes never left him once.

“It’s complicated,” he told her.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is it some kind of secret you can’t tell me, then?”

He grit his teeth. “No.”

“Oh, so you just won’t then,” she challenged back, and every subtle crease in her growing frown told him that this whole matter was quickly escalating to a point where he no longer had control.

He wondered why, now of all times, she felt the need to rear her stubborn head.

He took in a deep breath and released it. He felt so oddly calm, and yet he was quite certain that he had never been so angry with her in his whole life. “Fine, then. Biologically: it’s me.”

She blinked at him once, twice, several more times. Finally, “You think this is funny?”

His brows furrowed at her. “No, Bulma, I don’t.” When her mouth opened, he cut her off, “Some saiyans men had the ability to carry and conceive.”

“But that’s impossible. You’re biologically male, you can’t—”

“I’ll remind you that I’m not human, so perhaps you should stop thinking within the binary of your species,” he told her, even though the distant edges of his memory reminded him that he had once been in her position, disbelieving and frustrated and so damned confused.

Her gaze dropped away. He watched as her bright eyes flickered back in forth, her curled fingers cupping her chin, her lips twitching with silent, half-hearted words. He would never admit it, but he always found it just a bit endearing when she did this.

“But I’m confused,” Kakarot spoke up suddenly. “How would the baby even get there?”

Vegeta seethed, mortified heat crawling up his neck and over his face. “How do you _think_?!”

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking!”

Vegeta growled, digging the tips of his fingers into the bridge of his nose. He let the annoyance and frustration drive away the pounding of his heart and his rushing blood. He basked in the familiarity of it and wondered if perhaps being in a constant state of agitation was simply a healthy normal about himself that he would have to accept.

“Well, then,” Bulma spoke, her determination powering through his gaze as if it were nothing more than paper, “who is the father?”

And just like that, the agitation, the annoyance, the frustration, the panic, it all faded away. His blood chilled and his body froze solid.

“It is not relevant.”

She hesitated at that. “Vege—"

“No,” he said, voice unfeeling, glacial, unrelenting.

That face flashed through his mind—pale, black lined, always smug. Those nasty red eyes, too.

The name connecting the features to a single being danced around his throat, but he would not say it. He could not say why—he has said _that_ name plenty of times already, and it had never disturbed him this much. All he knew was that now, in this room, with these people, he would not say it.

Did that make him seem weak to these people? The ability to care was lost to him in that moment. He would not say that name, he just wouldn’t. He could not say it.

Bulma’s mouth gaped, lips moving but not speaking, seeming lost. Finally, she closed her mouth, frustration and something else he could not decipher taking over her gaze. There was a calculating look in her eyes as she stared into his, like if she looked deep enough, the answers he would not say would jump out at her. 

He met her gaze openly and yet revealed nothing, his eyes daring her to keep trying.

Eventually she gave up, crossing her arms over her breasts and turning away like a petulant child. Or perhaps not like a child—maybe there was something more serious in her demeanor, something deeper than the jealousy that lurked over her visage. Perhaps it was concern? Or was she feeling betrayed? In this moment he just couldn't care.

“I... I know of the boy you speak of,” King Kai said, dispelling the farce of his ignorance. "But I did not know that he was... from you."

Vegeta had not expected that. He wondered just how secretive Frieza had been that not even a Kai had known the origins of his spawn. 

“Can you see him?”

“Just a moment...” said King Kai. Then, a loud, near-horrified gasp. “ _Oh my_.”

“ _What_?” Vegeta shouted to the ceiling, his fists clenching and teeth baring.

The Kai did not answer for several long seconds, before releasing a rough breath. “I see him. He is on the ship. He is... he is not well...” He said nothing else.

Vegeta took a deep breath, holding himself back from demanding more. He was not quite sure he wanted to know what the Kai had seen. But not knowing did not mean it was not _happening_ —

It was then that a just as horrible truth—a disgusting irony—dawned on him. The division that he had gone to all those years ago, had engaged in a trade of prisoners for a sack of coins and a stronger alliance, was the same one that held him son. 

_Ziloh_ had his son.

"You know the coordinates of this planet, I presume?” he asked abruptly, because he was done. He was done with confessions, and shocked expressions, and Earthen elephants that trampled throughout the room, and the nerves and tension that captivated his body. They all could gape and dwell and analyze all they wanted, but he was finished with the whole lot of this. He could not stand to be here any longer, not when all the air had just been so brutally punched from his chest. 

"Ah yes, let me see," King Kai answered. Slight swishing filling the quiet room as he searched through his little book.

"Ah ha, here it is! The coordinates are 8205XY.” After a moment, he also named the approximate amount of light years it was away from Earth. The number went straight over his head, so he only nodded, and turned back to his wife.

Her frown twitched, though whatever was on her mind remained in her head. “At the moment, I’d say that the ship could get you there in around five days. If you give me the rest of the day to work on it, though, I may be able to get you there in two.”

He nodded again. “I’ll be leaving once it's done, then.”

With that done he turned away. The archway separating the living room from the rest of the house was barely even ten steps away. In fact, two of the ten steps had been made so quickly that Kakarot nearly missed his chance to grasp his shoulder and stop him.

Vegeta resisted the immediate urge to shake him away like a temperamental child. “What?”

Kakarot's dark eyes bored into his own. His expression was blank, so oddly betraying nothing, but Vegeta knew that even he was analyzing him, in whatever way the clown considered to be calculating.

“Sometime today, Kakarot,” he snapped, giving into the urge, and jerking his shoulder out of his hold.

Kakarot let him go with a fight, and the blankness of his face did not dissipate, but his mouth finally opened with, “I’m coming with you.”

Vegeta glared up at him. “Two of us aren’t needed to find the dragon balls, Kakarot.”

“I know,” he said. “I just want to.” 

Despite his words, he said it like it was for _Vegeta's_ benefit. Perhaps not for the little spheres that were threatening their very worlds and livelihoods, but for _something,_ nonetheless.

Yet, Vegeta could not find a reason to say no. “Do what you want, clown.”

Kakarot nodded, and finally the hint of a smile broke through his impassiveness.

No one said anything further as he stalked out the room.

* * *

It was hours later when Vegeta stepped outside the confines of his home. 

The air had chilled considerably, wisps of wind flowing intensely against his cheeks and bare forearms. Once upon a time, the weather shifts of Earth had baffled him, profuse sweating or fierce shivering making a mockery of him until he had learned how to consistently control his body temperature. Now, he hardly felt it.

An odd buzz reached his ears, followed by loud, excited shouting. He turned his head towards the sound and saw his son several yards away, a strange looking controller clenched in his hands. A bright smile lit up the entirety of his face, his knees shaking as if barely restraining himself from jumping up and down. A glance at Yamcha told him he was near the same. Both of their faces were tilted up.

Vegeta looked up as well. There was not much light, but he could see a peculiar white contraption far up ahead, gliding against the deep orange of the sky with bits of dark blue breaking out as the last of the sun disappeared.

That must be the ‘drone thing’ they had been so thrilled about. He watched it for a moment longer, wondering just what was so exciting about it. Why build that useless thing when you could fly even higher than it yourself? He had wondered the same thing once when Bulma dragged him along one windy day to watch Trunks run around with a kite. She had told him that it was fun, that it was a way for parents to bond with their children.

Vegeta never found the appeal. He would live on this planet for the rest of his life, but he doubted he would ever come to understand humans.

Vegeta took in the brilliant grin spreading over Trunks’ cheeks, took in the child-like joy that burst over his face as his creation zoomed over his head. He also took in the pride he saw, not only in his son’s eyes but also in Yamcha’s when he gazed down at him, and Vegeta wondered just how big a deal it was that Trunks had built this thing on his own. Vegeta certainly had no way with mechanics or engineering—Trunks was fully his mother’s son in that regard.

Yamcha laid a hand on his son’s hair once more, though there was something else in his eyes now. It was subtle, nearly hidden by the joy and the pride and the excitement, but there all the same.

What it was came to Vegeta so abruptly he felt like he had been slapped. It was _longing_ he saw glowing in the other man’s eyes, burning like an ember amongst the fire that was his joy as he gazed at Trunks.

 _He should be my son_ , those eyes said.

Vegeta turned away. He was feeling... something? He could not name it, and he did not care too, but he did not like it.

He continued on his way to find his wife, intent on seeing her progress with the ship. He did not doubt that she had already made good progress on it. Bulma was a woman that certainly knew how to put her mind to good use.

Vegeta could not say the same about himself. 

He hardly registered the time passing by since he left the gathering. Instead, his mind kept wondering about Tene'mareen. He thought about how hot it was and how hard the air was to breathe and how terrible the smell was. He thought about the people who worked with broken bones and empty stomachs, with the threat of whips on their tattered skin and bullets in their soulless head. He thought about war and death and pain and how none of it compared to that wretched place.

At the time, he wondered what crime could possibly warrant such a punishment. He wondered why anyone bothered to live that kind of life. He wondered why the lot of them had not taken knives to their throats and saved themselves the trouble.

Now, he thought about how for everyday for the past thirteen years, his son had known nothing other than that hell.

Thirteen years. _Thirteen years_.

Vegeta's toe kicking again the first stair of the gravity chamber knocked him from the spiraling well of despair that nearly swallowed him whole.

He climbed up the rest of the steps and legs that were only the slightest bit shaky. When he reached the top, he punched in the code and strolled inside.

Not much had changed about his chamber. It was still large and bare, with red tile floors and a circular staircase that led into the lounge area. The control panel had been raised from where it was normally kept underneath the tile, and that was where he found his wife, curled in the chair with a tool producing a small flame in her hand, focused intently on the matter before her. 

“Bulma,” he said as the door slid closed behind him.

“It’ll be ready tomorrow morning," she said promptly, her eyes not even so much as twitching toward his direction.

He stared at her for a moment. Then, “If you have something to say then I suggest you say it.”

“I have nothing to say,” she said, her voice hard, her fist clenched tight around her tool.

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised you'd say that.”

He felt the familiar heat of anger begin to brew. “You are trying my patience.”

“Well maybe you’re trying mine!” she snapped suddenly, pinning him down with a gaze full of fire. “But that doesn’t matter to you at all, does it? Of course not! Gods forbid Vegeta actually— _ow_!”

He was by her side in a second, snatching her by the wrist to inspect her hand. She was in one piece and there was no blood, but the flame had burned through her glove and singed her finger just slightly.

She jerked her hand back and he let her. Silence fell over them.

“If you’re angry with me,” he said, pushing down the anger, “you’ve got until tomorrow morning to speak up.”

She was silent for a moment, seeming to ponder over his words. Then, she said, “So, you’re bringing him back here? That’s your plan?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by the question.

“Naturally,” he said slowly. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Did you have some kind of problem with that?”

“No, I was just making sure we’ve got our discussion about it out of the way.”

“What is there to discuss?"

She gave him a disbelieving look. "You can't be serious."

He hardened his gaze, not liking what he thought she was implying. "I am. He is my son, Bulma.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she said, even though he really hadn’t. 

Still though, the offended air of her tone relieved him just a bit. He was not sure what he would have said if that had, in fact, been her problem. “Then what did you mean?”

“Vegeta, do you understand what you’re doing? I mean _really_ understand. Do you understand what you’re asking of _me_?”

Initially, he had been ready to snap at her for daring to insult his intelligence. That last bit though, had him pausing, had him staring at her with uncomprehending eyes.

She closed her pretty blue eyes and took a deep, long breath. When she opened them again, they held a look he could not even begin to decipher.

“This morning everything was normal. Now all of a sudden, I find out that you have a teenage child somewhere out there in the universe and now he’s going to be living with us? What do you think will happen when he gets here? Do you think he’ll just... just _fit_ right in here? You think he’ll eat our meals with a smile on his face and play with Trunks and Goten and spar with you when you feel like giving him some attention?"

She shook her head, seemingly answering her own question. "He _won’t_ , Vegeta. Goku told me what he looked like, what they _all_ looked like. He was abused in probably the worst ways imaginable. Do you know what that kind of treatment does to a person? To a _child_? He has probably never known love in his whole life. Do you understand what it means to bring a child like that into our home? Children like that don’t... don’t _act_ like normal children, Vegeta! What if he’s violent? What if he hurts me? What if he hurts _Trunks_?”

He stared at her; his mouth open but not a single word passing through. He felt cold. He felt like a stone had settled deep in his gut.

“So, what are you saying, Bulma?" He demanded, the heat of burgeoning anger coloring his voice. "Are you saying I should just, just _leave_ him?”

“No! I would _never_ say that!" she shouted, looking hurt that he would even suggest such a thing. "It’s just, gods, you never _think_. You’re bringing a child here who needs a mother, and I’m willing to be that, but are you willing to be a father? You already don’t spend time with the son you’ve got now unless he’s willing to get beaten up in the gravity chamber! You can’t just ignore an abused child and expect him to heal. You’re bringing a child here who has been hurt for so long he might _never_ heal from it."

She was on her feet then, like the words are a power that have taken her over her body. “You’ve thought about _nothing_. Did you tell the doctors to prepare for a neglected child with profound injuries? How will you make sure he takes all of his medication? Where will he sleep? What if he _can’t_ sleep? What will you do when he clings to you and won’t let you out of his sight for even a second? What will you do when he gets out of the honeymoon phase and starts destroying our home in a test to see if you really care about him? What will you do when all that is happening, and your other son needs a reminder that his father loves him too? What will you _do_?”

Vegeta stared back her, at her angry eyes and fiery face, and what could he possibly say except for the truth?

The words are like a physical blow to his pride. “I did not think of that.”

"I _know_ you didn’t, Vegeta!” and surely enough, she did not even look surprised by the confession. “This is a life—your _child’s_ life we are talking about. You can't just... just... just _not_ think this _through_!" she shouted, throwing the torch down against the tiles beneath their feet. “But you don’t have to think anything through, because you have me, right? Why think about consequences when you have _Bulma,_ right? It’ll be me and it’s not fair because it’s always _just me_!”

Suddenly, the fire died down. Her body slumped inward, the strings of her marionette of anger abruptly cut.

"Do you know how scared I was when I had Trunks?" she asked, and to his horror, Vegeta could see tears begin to fill her eyes. "Do you know he spent the first week of his life inside an incubator because I needed to run all the tests I could to make sure he didn't _die_ because he was a saiyan on a planet where they aren’t supposed to be? Did you know I thought I was doing the best thing for him by surgically removing his tail but instead almost lost him from an infection I had no idea to anticipate? Do you know that just when I had given up hope, I wrote you a note apologizing for killing your son? I ripped it to shreds because you weren’t there anyway! You were never there, and you didn’t care! I had to do everything all by myself and now you want me to do it again!”

She brushes roughly at the tears, but they still fall, staining her pretty, pale face. “You can’t just drop him into my arms and expect me to make everything better. I don’t know everything, Vegeta! I don’t know how to help your son! I don’t know how to be a mother to a child who has never known one! Do you know what it’s like to love a child who might never be able to love you back? I don’t know, and I don’t _want_ to know, but I’ll do it because I know he needs me. He’s going to need you too, and Trunks is going to need you, and _I’m_ going to need you! I can’t keep doing this by myself!”

Vegeta remembered everything about Bulma.

He remembered when he first met her, when her terror made sadistic joy burn through his body. He remembered everything after that as well. He remembered hating her attitude and her voice and the way she looked at him like he was little more than an unruly child. He remembered the first time he had sex with her, and the time after that, and the time after that. He remembered how she pried and prodded him with questions he never wanted to answer. He remembered being shaken from a nightmare and waking up to her hand bruised by his grip and tears in her eyes. He remembered never apologizing for that, and her never asking for one. He remembered breaking her heart and not regretting it.

He remembered the day he fell in love with her. He did not remember ever telling her he had.

He remembered her one day demanding that he marry her. He remembered not agreeing to do so, but still showing up on the date she picked in the itchy suit she had laid out on the steps to the gravity chamber.

He remembered wondering why this woman seemed to want him so badly.

He remembered looking at her, her smile and her eyes, and feeling regret.

He wondered if he could truly do what she asked. He told himself—that day with his face in the dirt and Buu's handiwork all over his body—that he would be better. He told himself he would be the father that Trunks should have always had, and a husband deserving of the love Bulma was so willing to give. 

He had not done any of that, had he?

In his mind, he saw Trunks. He saw innocent blue eyes and a face that looked like his, yet always smiling, always laughing, always bright. Then he saw another boy. He saw a face that was solemn but soft, and eyes that were damaged and unwanted but curious all the same. They were so different, yet just as equally his.

He had never known just how much of himself he would have to give up to be what they—his sons and his wife—needed. He had let them down. 

He wondered if he could ever stop letting them down. He wondered if it was too late to do better.

He knew, though, that it was not too late to try.

He curled his fingers under her chin, a gesture gentler than he was used too. He lifted her head up, and when their eyes met, he made his promise. “I will try my best to be better. You have my word as the Prince of all Saiyans that I will try.”

It was not enough. Gods knew she deserved so much more, but she took it. Her whole body deflated in on itself, and she gave him a small, but forgiving smile.

“We’re really in for it, huh?”

He said, “You seem to know a lot about abused children.”

She blinked at him, seeming surprised that he had noticed. Then she said, “When Yamcha and I were young, we talked about adopting. He wanted to adopt a girl from a developing country. I wanted to adopt a boy who would adore me." She gave a self-deprecating huff of a laugh. “Guess I wasn’t always the best prospective parent, either.”

He said nothing to that, but he knew she had not expected him too. The next several moments are spent in silence. Bulma wiped at her face with a cloth that he hoped was clean. Outside, he could hear the buzz of the drone flying overhead.

But, as it always did, the silence ended.

Bulma asked, “Why won’t you tell me who the other father is?”

The judgement from earlier was gone. There was simply curiosity there, and not even the entitled kind. She wanted to know, but he knew that if he refused to say, she would let it go.

He entertained the thought, but only for a moment. It would be so easy to say nothing. It might even be for the best for her to never know. He could not say a half truth, after all. He could not say how the boy had come about without revealing the dark things of his memory that he never wanted to see the light of day again.

He did not want her to know. He did not want her to know what he, in his weakness, had allowed to happen. He did not want to think about how terrifying her reaction could be.

Yet, he had to tell her. He had to tell this woman, who had stuck by him, who had waited for him, who had raised his son and was willing to raise another, who had loved him even when he had not deserved it.

(And perhaps, he admitted despite how his pride seethed, it would not be so awful to say it out loud, to let someone else bear the secret that he had hidden so deeply inside that even he forgot it was there.)

“It’s Frieza," he said.

At first, her face remained just as blank as before. Then he saw her brows furrow as the wheels in her head began to spin. 

He saw the exact moment the meaning of his words hit her. His wife’s blank face crumbled in distress, and her eyes grew wide and horrified. He did not know what she saw in his face, but whatever it was, it made her hands cover her mouth in sorrow, and tears spark anew.

When she wrapped her arms around him, he let her. She held his neck tightly, and she smelled like sweet lavender and home.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, sounding so broken inside for him. He said nothing back, only dipped his nose into her neck and breathed.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y’all weren’t expecting some Bulma-bashing, because *T’Challa voice* we don’t do that here.


	12. The Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the missed update, I had a very busy day yesterday. There will still be an update tomorrow.

Chapter Eleven: _The Name_

**_The Past:_ **

Nappa could feel something crunch unpleasantly and scream beneath his boots as he trampled over what might have been a wayward medic or someone’s whore or even another soldier for all he cared. The poor soul was hardly the first to have been mercilessly mowed down by his haste and would most likely not be the last by the time Nappa reached his destination. He ran like the devil himself was on his heels—or if not on his heels, then certainly awaiting his arrival.

It had been his own idiocy that caused this mess. He should have known better than to wander from his prince while this far into the... _pregnancy_. Nonetheless, in his lapse of judgement, he saw no error in visiting the canteen—during lunch rush, no less—and eating to his heart’s content.

After Vegeta's message through the scouter, he had returned as quickly as he could, only to receive no answer upon knocking on the door.

If there had been a mess in the hallway, it had already been cleaned away. No such care had been given to Vegeta's quarters, he discovered, when he finally got the door open. His prince’s chamber was still sullied by a pile of bedding thickly drenched with amniotic fluid and fresh blood.

He was near the medical ward now. His hard footfalls were leaving deep dents in the flooring, but he still felt he was not getting there fast enough. There was no telling how Frieza had reacted to learning that a saiyan had dared to carry his offspring. They could have already killed Vegeta for this transgression by now. Vegeta was a man grown, and had long since surpassed him in ability, but Nappa would be his prince’s caretaker until the day he died, and he would never forgive himself for not protecting him when he needed it most.

When he finally reached the medical ward, he skidded to a halt. He grabbed the nearest medic by the front of his robe, and growled in his horrified face, “Where is Prince Vegeta?”

The medic pointed to the left with a shaky, blue tentacle. “H-H-He’s in the third room, sir.”

So, they hadn’t killed him yet. Nappa refused to feel relief until he saw him with his own eyes.

Nappa tossed the medic aside and stalked further into the wing. He did not bother with the keypad and slammed his shoulder straight into the door. The door toppled to the floor, and revealed the only bed in the room, and the occupant that laid atop it.

Vegeta looked... off. His prince was laid on his back above the crumpled sheets, dressed in thin, colorless pants and nothing else. IV tubes trailed from his arm, and his tail was enveloped in white gauze, lying uselessly beside him on the bed. Across his abdomen was a thick, white bandage, and Nappa could see blood oozing from his split knuckles.

The worst of it though, was Vegeta's eyes, staring up at the ceiling yet seeing nothing. They were completely, utterly, blank.

From his lips fell a mantra, “ _He's mine. He's mine. They’ll die. They’ll die...”_

On and on it went.

Nappa felt a disturbed shiver run down his spine. The devil had sucked his prince dry. He wondered if he had left anything of him at all.

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

The morning had never come so slowly.

Dawn had only begun to peek shyly through the curtains when Vegeta rolled out of the bed. He looked down at the spandex still hugging his body, and at the shape his prone body had left in the bed made up with sheets and blankets he only just realized he hadn’t bothered to pull down, and felt very pathetic.

His body felt heavy on his feet, and a headache brewed at the center of his skull. His eyes burned just the slightest bit every time he blinked, just as they had all throughout the night, but sleep never came.

The bliss of sleep could never come again, and he would not dare be surprised.

His body was tired, but it moved as he told it too. His hands gripped the handles of the dresser drawers and pulled out the bodysuit on the top of the pile. His feet walked across the carpet. His hands again opened the door. His feet took him down the hallway.

(His foot had also kicked the single, crumpled ball of white paper in the center of the carpet, and the rage burned so hot his eyes nearly blanked out.)

Not much went through his mind while he executed his routine. He pissed. He showered. He raised the power in his core until the water evaporated off his body. He brushed his teeth. When he pulled on his suit, red eyes filled with tears and pain flashed in his mind, and his grip tore the skinny sleeve completely off.

 _Dammit_.

He felt rage build inside of him, but as soon as it had come it dissipated. It was just a suit; he had many others just like it.

_It’s not about the suit._

He went back to their bedroom, opened the drawer, and grabbed a new outfit. He pulled this one on with more care.

He had barely made it past the door’s threshold when his chest started to burn hot once more. No thoughts passed through his head, but his fury set fire in his core, nevertheless.

 _“You really need to work on your anger issues, Vegeta,”_ he heard his wife’s smart-ass voice say, a memory probably but not one he was in any state to properly recall. _“You wonder why things never go your way? It’s because you walk around bursting blood vessels all day everyday like it’s normal. Maybe you should stop every once and a while and just_ breathe _.”_

He stopped. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose until his chest was stretched far and his lungs were full. He let it out through his mouth.

He left his room. He went down two doors, and entered a new one, one he prepared all on his own.

It was not very big. The walls were painted off-white, and completely bare, not so much as a hole or crack anywhere in the plaster. The carpeting was dark and made of soft fabric and thin fibers. There was one window on the eastern wall, and morning light poured in bright between the opened curtains. Underneath the window was a wide chest of drawers, all of which were empty, even from the dust that had been inside just the night before. 

On the other side of the room were double sliding doors that led into a small closet, empty aside from spare sheets. A few paces away from the doors, facing the window, was a single, twin-sized bed. The bed was brand new and looked the part, dressed in a single pillow, plain sheets, and an even plainer comforter pulled so prim and tightly to all four corners that it was clear the bed had never been unmade before, never slept in.

The room was not bare, yet it looked so empty. Like a cell. A bright, bar-less, cell.

He imagined Trunks’ room. The room itself was large, but all the useless crap in it made it seem almost cramped. His carpet was the same but was constantly cluttered with toys despite how little he played with them. There was a rug in there too, round with a stylized star in the center of it. His walls were a dull blue and painted with small yellow circles and connecting lines that were supposed to replicate constellations. The design could hardly be seen, however, with all the posters of anime characters and individual shelves holding books and useless knick-knacks on them. In one corner of his room was a desk with a chair, in another was a life-size replica of a robot (not even to play with, just to look at for whatever fucking reason). In the center of the room were two bean-bag chairs, facing a flat screen television with several game systems connected to it.

Would his older son like a room like that? Trunks was so much younger than him, though; maybe he would not want such a childish room. Maybe he would like something more like the room Vegeta shared with Bulma, styled with beige walls and potted plants and colorful paintings that had no real meanings but apparently “looked nice”. Or perhaps he would like something in the middle. What had Vegeta liked as a teenager? Aside from fighting and killing he couldn’t really remember.

_Thirteen years. Thirteen years wasted._

The rage boiled again. He closed his eyes against the force of it. He beat it back with all the resistance he had before the furious waves could drag him down under to where it was too deep to return.

Not now, he told himself. There was no use for this feeling right now.

_Soon, though. Soon._

“Hey, Vegeta! Oh, is this your son’s room?”

Vegeta froze at the voice, his body tensing in alarm. Then the rage morphed into something different. The anger was still there, but it was not the raging, murderous fury it was before. Now, it was just irritation. He had not even sense Kakarot coming. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone successfully snuck up on him.

He slammed the door shut. He then turned on his heel, bumping pointedly into the fool of a man peering rudely over his shoulder. Once again, Kakarot behaved as if the slight never happened, trailing along behind him while he strode back towards his own bedroom. 

His boots were waiting for him against the wall next to the door. His legs were steady when he stooped beside them, as were his hands as he pulled each one on.

“What’s this?” he heard Kakarot ask. Out the corner of his eye he could see him picking up the crumpled paper off the floor, his eyes fixed down on it as he unraveled it.

Vegeta straightened, and before the naked eye could see, snatched the paper from his fingers. “Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you in someone else’s house, clown.”

“But it was sitting in the middle of the floor!” Kakarot protested, as if that was any kind of excuse. “What is it, anyway?”

It was a list. 

The first step in doing better, he supposed, was adhering to the criticisms of his character. At the forefront of his mind, was Bulma's observation that he never “thought things through”. So, before his fruitless attempt at sleep, he had done so, or tried at least. 

Yet, just as Bulma's tirade had implied, there was quite a bit to consider. An overwhelming amount, in all honesty. Very quickly did he realize how hard it was to plan and organize when his thoughts were racing unbound through his head.

So, he tried making a list:

  1. PREPARE A ROOM
  2. INFORM THE DOCTORS
  3. FIND THE BOY
  4. KILL ANYONE WHO HAD ANYTHING TO DO WIT



He had crumbled the list, then, throwing it and the pen aside before the bulk of his rage could be immortalized through ink and paper.

In the end, he had only completed the first task on the list. He tried to imagine himself waltzing down to the wing where Bulma’s medical researchers dwelled. He imagined describing to them everything he had seen with his eyes alone: a swollen wrist, that was most likely sprained or fractured; an injured foot, ankle, or leg; a bruised face; an arm riddled with flesh wounds; a tail broken possibly beyond repair; a body that befit a corpse more than a living, breathing child.

He imagined saying those words out loud, and in the next instance, imagined the medical wing and all its inhabitants burning to the ground, caught up in the force of his wrath.

Would they even be able to help him? It was a dark thought, but one with merit. Vegeta could only have seen surface afflictions but looks could be deceiving and not always in a good way. There were undeniably deeper problems. He could have infections earthlings had never even heard of. He could be ill from sicknesses that human doctors were unable to heal.

What if his very blood would be a problem? Trunks at least, was half-human, but his oldest son was not. What if the mix of saiyan blood and Ice-jin blood was so foreign that the humans wouldn't even know what was wrong or right?

 _Forget illness_ , said the even darker part of his mind. Forget his alien blood. _How do you heal a body that was bones and skin and nothing else?_

It was around that time that Vegeta gave up on trying to think altogether. Not even he could not bear to think those kinds of despairing thoughts.

“None of your business,” he told Kakarot. “Why are you even here?”

Kakarot cocked his head. “We’re leaving this morning, right?”

“You weren’t invited on this excursion, Kakarot.”

“Well, yeah, but you told me to ‘do what I want’, so...”

Had Vegeta said that? He tried to think back on last night. The memories were a blurred together mess of shouting and panic and outrage—absolutely nothing useful. It sounded like something he would say though, dammit all.

"Two of us aren’t needed to find the dragon balls," he tried, anyway.

“I know,” Kakarot said. “I just want to.” 

Again, Vegeta did not like the way he said that. He did not like what it _implied_.

“Didn’t you just spend the last seven years dead?” he replied with an unimpressed curl to his lips, his voice haughty. “Is your wife already eager to have you out of her house again?”

Kakarot's laugh was short and awkward. He rubbed at the back of his head. “Yeah, she isn’t too happy with me right now...”

There was a story there, Vegeta could tell. It had not dawned on him before he said it, but he realized that Kakarot and his wife had not been married for seven years. He could not even imagine the storm of marital problems that must be tearing through their little house, and he was saying this in comparison to his _own_ marriage.

He could ask, he supposed, but Kakarot's marriage woes were quite firmly at the very bottom of the list of things Vegeta cared about.

Vegeta huffed and said, “Do what you want, clown.”

He then immediately started to sputter. Kakarot’s face lit up like one of those decorated trees Bulma would put up their living room for some winter holiday for whatever fucking reason. “That’s what you said before!”

Vegeta had too many scathing remarks he could give, so when he couldn’t pick just one, he decided to grit his teeth and say nothing at all.

He marched towards the door, Kakarot following closely at his heels. Together, they passed through the front door out into the morning light.

The hour was early, the sky still tinted grey but bright where the sun shone. It was a bit windy, blowing gently on where his skin was bare and through his hair. The air was still cold from any early morning rain, the evidence of it still clinging in small globes on the grass and tree leaves.

It was a pleasant morning, and Vegeta hated everything about it.

Kakarot was chattering about something or other again, but Vegeta did not bother to catch a single word of it. He could hear the other man grow quiet though, when they rounded around the building and the gravity chamber was suddenly in view. 

The gravity chamber was large like it always was, and wet with rain, but it might as well have been an all new creation given the purpose it was set to fulfil. After all, it was not really a gravity chamber anymore, was it? It was not even a spaceship really. It was something... _more_ than that. 

“Oh, hello boys,” Bulma’s father said when he noticed them, his hands holding onto what seemed like blueprints. His eyes seemed tired, but his smile was genuine. “Did you two sleep well?”

“Eh, sort of,” Goku said with another awkward laugh. Dr. Brief said something joke-like about the fiery nature of Goku’s wife, to which the latter laughed at again. Vegeta tuned all of it out.

He could hear their conversation of small talk and useless platitudes progressing, and he took the liberty of stomping away from them. In a few short strides he was already at the entrance, and in even less steps he had scaled the short staircase and was inside.

It looked as it usually did—a bare room with even barer walls and flooring, tinted a normal hue instead of red when its gravity manipulation feature was in use. The only points of interest were the single pit towards the corner that led to the living space, and the large control panel in the center of the room. 

One could also consider his wife’s body curled up in an unconscious heap on the floor a point of interest, but considering the way she was snoring and drooling on her blueprints, he would be more apt to find another, less positive description.

He nudged her hip with the toe of his boot. She blinked blearily up at him. “ _Wha_...?”

“Get up.”

She protested through unintelligible grumbles. When she noticed he was still there watching her, she asked with a great deal of reluctance, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to wake up.”

“I know damn well it’s too early for your smart-assery,” she groans. Her face twists uncomfortably as she stretched her body, and he tried not to think about how he probably should have checked on her last night, made sure she had eaten and slept somewhere more proper.

 _I can’t do this alone,_ she had said. It seemed that he already was not off to a great start.

He held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Once she stopped swaying, he crossed his arms over his chest, and asked gruffly, “Is the ship done?”

“Yes, actually,” she said, a prideful smile blooming on her face. “I surprised myself. I wasn’t entirely sure that I could pull it off in such a short amount of time. All Dad has to do is finish the outside inspection and you should be good to go.”

He hummed, feeling something like pride for her as well. He did not understand engineering and mechanics and all the other things she made seem as simple as the alphabet or number counting, but he knew a hard-earned accomplishment when he saw it. He was proud of her because he was married to a woman could do what no what else could do. 

He thought back on everything she had told him last night and thought suddenly that maybe he should tell her that he felt this way.

Before he had a chance to properly consider the implications of allowing such words to come from his mouth, a head full of bright purple hair was suddenly barreling through the open door and skidding to a halt right in front of him.

“Dad!” Trunks shouted, just in case standing three feet away from Vegeta was too far to be heard. His little face was twisted in a frown, the expression looking almost indignant.

Vegeta arched a single brow. “What is it, boy?”

“Is it true?” Trunks demanded. “Do I really have a brother?”

Vegeta immediately glared at his wife. She looked genuinely shocked, however, gaping down at their son. “How did you—” she started to ask.

“I heard you arguing last night,” and if he was at all ashamed by his blatant eavesdropping, he did not show it. “You said you had a son. Is it true?”

“Yes.”

Despite his question, Trunks must not have been expecting that answer, because all the indignation melts from his face, and his face falls into slack-jawed surprise.

Several seconds pass, and, “Oh,” was all he said. More seconds passed before he finished with, “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t,” Vegeta agreed because he was not sure what else he could say to that.

“Why?”

Vegeta did not know what to say to that either. He thought that this was absolutely not the conversation he wanted to be having right now.

“Trunks,” Bulma said, stooping down to his level. “We weren’t keeping things from you, it’s just that the situation is a bit... complicated. I know you have a lot of questions, but we are kind of in a big hurry right now.”

Trunks blinked up at them. “Are you going to get him?”

“Yes,” Vegeta said.

“Can I come?” he asked, but his face looked like it already knew the answer.

“No.”

“But—”

“No, Trunks.”

Trunks did not protest or whine, but his face dropped. The sight of it made something twinge uncomfortably in Vegeta's chest. It was an annoying feeling and he hated it, both the sensation of it and the fact that he was even capable of feeling such a way. 

Even so, it prompted him to drop down onto one knee. He waited for the boy to look him in the eye. When he did, Vegeta reached out with one hand, and slid his fingers behind the boy’s ear. He rubbed the spot gently with the pad of his fingers. Vegeta had not done this often, not even when Trunks was small, but the boy leaned into it like it was something familiar all the same.

“Your... brother”—he faltered over the word, but that was what the boy was, was he not?—“is not all we need to bring back to Earth. The dragon balls have also been taken, and we need to bring them back. I don’t have time to explain, but if we don’t, the conflicting energy will cause catastrophic damage to the Earth. Do you understand?”

Trunks nodded slowly.

“I don’t know what will happen while I am gone, that is why I need you here to watch over your mother."

It was not a total lie, but not the complete truth. He could not tell his son that the true reason he would not allow him to come was because Vegeta had no illusions that Tene'mareen was any kinder a place it had been before. He did not want his son to see the nightmare of a world that had shaken even the battle-hardened young man he had been then. 

Even more than that, he did not want his son to see what his father might do. Even now, he could still feel the rage churning deep within him, amplifying every time he thought of a broken little boy and of boastful, navy eyes. Vegeta had no idea what he would do or say once he actually got to the thrice-damned planet, but he knew with grim certainty that blood will be drawn, and he will exalt at the sight of it. 

He could not trust that he would not do something no child should ever see their father do.

Trunks wanted to come because he was a child, enamored with the idea of adventure. There would be nothing for Trunks to enjoy or marvel at. There would be only a darkness and cruelty that his sheltered mind would not understand, and the consequences of saiyan rage that a little boy did not deserve to witness.

The Vegeta of before would have scoffed at such mentality. He would have called it cowardly to shield innocent eyes from the cruel realities of the universe. He would have believed that he was aiding in the raising of a weak excuse for a saiyan. 

The Vegeta of today knew better, would not even bother to entertain his previous mindset. Trunks would never see such horrible things, not so long as Vegeta was alive to protect him.

“You could get Gohan to do it,” was what Trunks said in response. 

Vegeta knew his intelligent little son well enough to know that he would not be so easily placated. The only route that would ever work on him would be honesty.

“I could," he agreed. "But I won't trust the safety of your mother with just anyone. So, I’m asking you to do it.”

Trunks looked astonished at that. Then a small, but very pleased smile began to take over his face. “Okay, dad.”

I’m putting my faith in you, so don’t let me down,” he could not help but tack on, even though he knew in reality it was not fair to put such a weight on such small, sheltered shoulders. At eight, Trunks spent his days building gadgets and playing games with Kakarot’s youngest. At eight, Vegeta had already killed more of those same kinds of children than he could count.

Once, long ago, he had resented the boy Bulma and her coddling had turned his son into. Now, he looked down at his innocent face and blue eyes burning with a determined look so eerily similar to his own, and he wondered why he ever wanted his child to be anything different. “I won’t, Dad! I can handle it, I promise!”

“Then I should have nothing to worry about,” Vegeta said, rising to stand once more. “Now, go. I’ll be back by the end of next week.”

Trunks nodded, and like all children who seemed to forget how to simply walk places, ran like the devil was on his heels back towards the door. Before he left though, he spun on his heels, and with a bright smile on his face said, “Good luck, Dad!”

Then he was gone, and they were alone once more.

He could hear each step Bulma took, until she was standing just near his shoulder. He did not look at her, but he knew she was watching him. He did not know what it was she is looking for, did not know if he wanted her to find it or not, but no matter what it was, her gaze had nerves prickling all over his skin.

Finally, she opened her mouth, and asked, “Are you nervous?”

He nearly scoffed. “Of course not.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, the touch gentle, clearly meant to be comforting. He wanted to shrug her off, to turn his back to her, to snap at her until she got fed up and left. He did none of those things.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him, softly.

He did not answer, did not even know what he would say even if he were inclined too.

She didn’t seem deterred by his lack of response. Her hand trailed a slow, soothing line back and forth from his shoulder to just beneath his neck.

"You know you're going to find him,” she said with such confidence that the words actually make some of the tension in his chest ease. “You don't even worry about that.”

He wanted to believe her. He wanted the nerves and the panic swirling inside of him to cease. He wanted to believe in himself the way she believed in him. 

But he couldn’t. He could not erase the doubt that had taken root in his mind. Vegeta wanted to believe that he would find the boy, but what if he didn’t? It had been sixteen hours since he had seen those eyes staring at him through the glass that divided them. He thought of those bruises and scars and knew that even worse things could happen in a far less amount of time. It did not take long to snap a person’s neck, or puncture their heart, or beat them until they reached the point of no return.

King Kai had said that the boy was alive the afternoon before, but that could just as easily no longer be the case. What if Vegeta got there and all that was left for him to find was a corpse? Not the corpse of an infant, like he had thought all this time, but the corpse of a child, one who had survived despite all the odds. It would be the corpse of a life that had once, for scarcely a moment, been so very precious to him; a life that had, for all this time, been waiting for him; a life he could have saved but _hadn’t_.

“Besides, it’s not like you’ll be alone,” she was saying, and her tone had become annoyingly cheeky, but he basked in it, because it was far better than anything else going on in his head. “Goku will be there with you.”

He grunted lowly, just loudly enough for the woman to hear. As if having that clown with him would be any kind of comfort. Though to Bulma, despite her teasing, probably actually did think that he would be in some way. Bulma made it no secret that she wanted Vegeta to... _befriend_ Kakarot. He bet in her mind she could not even understand why he had not already. It was one of the many oddities of earthlings Vegeta never bothered to understand—their veneration of Kakarot, as if he were a gift hand-wrapped personally by the gods for them.

Everyone was so fond of him, but Vegeta was not at all charmed. Vegeta could not say he liked anything about the other saiyan at all, from his gods-awful clothing choices to his “easy-going” personality.

And what exactly would being friends with Kakarot even entail, anyway? Hosting dinner parties and going to sporting event outings and chaperoning playdates together like Bulma did with her “normal-not-superpowered" friends?

The thought was repulsive.

It may not entirely be accurate though. That was how Bulma acted with the prissy, near middle-aged ladies whose names Vegeta had never bothered to remember, but not at all how she acted with her martial artist friends. As far as Vegeta could tell, aside from Yamcha she only ever spent time with them when the Earth was in some kind of peril.

Even under such distance circumstances, Vegeta still could not lower himself to being friends with Kakarot. Occasional sparring partners, perhaps, for given everyone else’s power levels, it was not as if he had the luxury to be picky. He could not accept any more than that. He would not grovel at Kakarot’s feet like all his other foolish comrades. Vegeta had given up many things over the years, but not his pride, and he would hold onto it with all the strength he possessed.

Would it even matter though, after this whole debacle? He knew he might fail; refusing to acknowledge it would not change the possibility. To fail so spectacularly, with Kakarot as a witness... 

Admittedly, the thought made him vaguely nauseous.

He shook the thought away before it could make the sick feeling grow into something truly physical. Besides, why was Kakarot so eager to follow him, anyway? He sensed the Tenas’ power levels just as Vegeta had, so surely he knew that even individually they would not so much as break a sweat subduing them. There would be no grand showdown to be found for him, so what purpose did he have to come? 

Vegeta figured the reason must be important. After all, it was not that long ago he had returned to life. Surely, he understood that maybe he should stay put for five fucking minutes?

Memories flashed by then of Gohan, still young, still having nightmares every night of Cell. The boy had spent almost every day in their household for an entire month, claiming it was because he liked to play with Trunks, but even Vegeta knew that he just could not stand to be in a house that would never have his father in it again. He remembered Chi-Chi, her stomach still heavy in the immediate aftermath of childbirth, crying in Bulma’s arms because she did not know how she could bear to raise a child who looked so much like his father.

Vegeta had thought they were pitiful, but pity was still a form of compassion. If the little family’s distress had invoked emotions in even _Vegeta_ , then how must Kakarot feel, knowing that all their pain, _preventable_ pain, had been because of his choices?

Apparently not that remorseful since he seemed to be jumping at the chance to run off again.

Not that it was any of Vegeta’s business, but even he thought it was a bit of a... what was the term that annoying man, Yamcha, often used? Oh, right—a dick move.

"You know, you shouldn't be so nasty to him,” Bulma said. “He's really trying to get to know you."

All he said was, “Whatever.”

She rolled her eyes but gave him a small smile.

There was more he needed to say to her, but whatever those words were, he could not bring them to the surface.

“I did not... speak with the doctors,” was what he eventually settled on.

She hummed, and he was annoyed by how unsurprised the noise sounded. “I’ll take care of it. Can you... I know you probably weren’t... paying attention but... can you tell me anything about his condition from what you saw of him. What should I tell the doctors to prepare for?”

Everything inside him was twisting and burning, and all he could say was, “The worst.”

She nodded, her lip twisting underneath her teeth from the weight of his words. He thought again about the potential corpse his mind had conjured up, neck and spine bent unnaturally, blood trailing from a tiny mouth, red eyes devoid of soul. He knew that despite the grimness of his words, they were only the truth.

Her hand had trailed down his arm and was suddenly in his. She was closer now, and if he would look up, he would see her beautiful blue eyes, watching him with a gaze so soft and so firm.

“It’ll be okay,” she was saying to him. “We’ll fix this. We’ll make this right.”

He closed his eyes. He tipped his forehead against hers, tightened the grip of his hand in hers. For long seconds they stayed that way, and though she did not say it, he could tell she was surprised. Some part of him was surprised too. He realized though that she was holding herself too still, clearly not trying to scare him away, _coddling_ him. It annoyed him that she thought he was so fragile as that, but he did not move away. He couldn’t, not yet. He did not know whatever this moment was, he just knew that he _needed_ it.

"Hey, Vegeta, I—uh, oh," came Kakarot’s voice from the doorway, trailing off awkwardly. His cheerful face actually managed to look uncomfortable.

Vegeta pulled away so fast one could almost call the movement hasty. Bulma did not look at all embarrassed. In fact, her smile looked almost amused. Vegeta’s face, on the other hand, felt the slightest bit hot, but he played it off to the best of his ability. “What?” he asked, gruffly.

"Dr. Briefs said we could leave whenever you're ready."

Right, then. He took a deep, steadying breath, disguising it with a nod.

To Bulma he said, “Get out."

She rolled her pretty eyes, but still bent over to pick up her tools. He expected her to move towards the door, but instead she faced him again, and promptly kissed his cheek.

Before he could get a chance to be indignant about it, she was whispering in his ear, "Bring him home, okay?"

She looked at him expectantly. He did not nod, but determination hardened his gaze.

She took the look for what it was and smiled so brightly at him he almost felt embarrassed again. She turned from him then to give Kakarot a hug, telling him something about, “keeping an eye on her husband,” to which Kakarot agreed to good-naturedly.

By the doorway, she gave them both a final smile, before stepping out into the sunlight. The door slid shut behind her.

Vegeta did not spare Kakarot even a glance before walking over to the controls.

“Sit down and strap in,” Vegeta instructed. The coordinates had already been programmed into the system by Bulma. Vegeta pressed the ‘launch’ button, and the timer on the screen began counting down from thirty.

With that done, Vegeta moved to take his seat as well, next to Kakarot and strapped himself in.

Vegeta turned his gaze towards the window. Bulma and his son were standing in the grass some yards away, as was the doctor and his wife. They were all waving up at them, and even from this distance, Vegeta could see the bright, encouraging smiles on their faces. Trunks’ smile was particularly joyful, but then again it always was.

Vegeta locked eyes with the boy, who in turn began to wave even more vigorously at being noticed, his mother’s hand on his head clearly the only thing keeping him in place.

Vegeta tried to imagine himself down there, young and small and smiling bright enough to light up a whole city. He could not see it, at all. Trunks had his face but was nothing like him at all. It was a wonder how he managed to help create such a happy child.

Vegeta did not return his joy, but the wide grin on his son’s face was somewhat... soothing in a way.

"Hey Vegeta, the ship's about to take off," Goku said for no other purpose than to start conversation. Vegeta grunted, not bothering to say that he could clearly see the timer reading “four seconds”.

The four seconds passed. The ship rumbled and shot into the air. His family faded from view.

* * *

"Bye, Dad, come back soon!" Trunks shouted as the ship became a blurred dot in the sky. When it was finally gone, he turned to his mother, and smiled up at her.

"Dad will bring him back," he told her proudly.

Bulma smiled down at him. "I don't doubt him for a second."

She ruffled her son's hair until he giggled, before pulling out her phone.

Trunks floated up until he was her height, watching the screen. "Who are you calling, Mom?"

"Oh, just a few friends of mine," she told him absently as she tapped on the keypad.

"The Z-fighters?!" he exclaimed so loudly she jumped in shock.

She gave him a puzzled look. “The Z-fighters?”

“Well, that’s what Goten and I call them.”

“Well, yes, I’m calling the... Z-fighters.” She gave him a look. “Your father wasn’t just trying to placate you, you know. The Earth really could be in a lot of trouble. I should at least warn everyone.”

Trunks said nothing, so she went back to her phone. She called the Kame House first. It rung for several long seconds, but no one picked up. She growled in frustration. Three adults and a sentient turtle and still no one ever answered the phone.

“Mom, who is Frieza?”

The question startled her. "Where did you hear that name?" she demanded.

"Dad said it," he said, looking more guilty about his eavesdropping than he had managed before.

She sighed and wondered what she was supposed to say. She thought about the books she would read back when Trunks was young, and she had felt that despite her intelligence, she still had no idea how to be a mother. She remembered soaking up chapters and chapters on censorship and age-appropriate topics.

More importantly, she thought about Vegeta, and how he would feel if his little son ever knew about such a horrible thing.

“A very bad man,” was all Bulma said. That conversation could wait, she decided.

* * *

Once the ship broke through the atmosphere, he and Kakarot unstrapped themselves from their seats. Kakarot was stretching and yawning obnoxiously, as if he had been stuck in that position for days as opposed to the short few minutes it had actually been.

Vegeta turned away from him, intent on going to the bottom of the ship and staying there until Tene'mareen was within orbit.

"Hey, Vegeta," Kakarot said before he had the chance to disappear. Vegeta reluctantly turned to face him. Vegeta had no idea what annoying mess of words would come out of the other man's mouth, but the sooner he heard it, the sooner he would he left alone surely.

"Do you want to spar?” Kakarot asked. “The gravity machine still works in here, right?"

Vegeta blinked. He had not been expecting that.

Even still, “No, I don’t.”

Kakarot’s face fell. A smile was back on his face soon after, though. “Okay, I was just asking.”

Vegeta grunted and turned to walk away. He just wanted to be alone, and do his best to not think about the boy.

Vegeta stopped in a half step, his body jerking to a halt so suddenly that it was a wonder he stayed on his feet at all.

The boy...

Boy...

That was not his name.

Vegeta had never given him one, he realized. On that day, the one day he had held him, he had been ‘parasite’, ‘it’, ‘baby’, ‘boy’. Before he could even think to give him something real, he had been gone, from both his arms and his thoughts.

For this past day and night, Vegeta had thought of him simply as ‘boy’. He had not cared enough to wonder what his name might actually be. Vegeta had never named him, but surely, he had one after all this time. What was his name?

Vegeta did not _know_. When he had spoken with the Kai, he had not even thought to ask. How could he have not thought to wonder such an important thing until now?

Something ugly bubbled in his gut. It was a terrible feeling, and it felt nothing like rage. He knew rage—if there was one emotion he knew better than any other it would be that one. Vegeta did not know what this feeling was. It was sinister. It was hideous. It was dangerous. He could feel his energy crackling beneath his skin. He could feel Kakarot’s wary gaze on his back.

It was too dangerous.

He spun on his heel. Kakarot jumped in surprise.

"I'll spar with you," Vegeta told him.

Kakarot’s eyes brightened, his smile seeming genuinely happy. Vegeta did not bother wondering just what exactly the expression meant.

Vegeta stomped over and threw the first punch. Kakarot blocked, and Vegeta felt a delicious rush at the contact. He could do just this. Fight through the pain. Fight until the dangerous feeling was buried.

_“He’s mine. They’ll die. They’ll die. They’ll die.”_

_They will_ , Vegeta told the memory, told the ugly feeling. _They will._

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Vegeta’s gravity chamber the same design as the spaceship Goku used in the Namek saga? It is now.


	13. The Penalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes graphic depictions of torture and descriptions of rape of a child.*

Chapter Twelve: _The Penalty_

Am I still alive?

_He is groaning. Loudly. In a way that they would say was manipulative. He is not trying to be manipulative. Every sound he makes is so real. His fingers grapple at his busted lips, but they do little to stifle the noise. The guard’s grip around his ankle is too tight. He cannot pull away. He cannot not stop the blade piercing his skin, digging down to his bone. The blade is heated. It is so very hot, dragging a slow, molten line down his calf. His eyes are wet. He is screaming so loudly his own ear drums ache._

I think I am still alive.

_They are beating his feet with a thick, wooden pole. All of his toes have broken. All of his pre-existing blisters have burst under the onslaught. His soles are shredded and raw, and blood oozes and splatters around his ankles._

_“Do you want me to stop?” The guard—a different one maybe, but did it matter?—asks him, and he knows it is a trick question but he nods anyway. Or at least he thinks he nods because the beating stops. It is not a blessing. The tormented nerves come alive at the pause. The pain is agonizing._

_He is moaning and whining and making all kinds of manipulative noises, but he still hears, “You have no right to demand such a request. Insubordination is a sin punishable by death. You should be grateful we are allowing you to atone for your crimes.”_

_The pole strikes him again. He bites through his lip and his mouth fills with blood._

Why am I still alive?

_The blindfold is ripped off his face. The light above is bright. Too bright. He closes his eyes, but the light still flashes across his vision. Its intensity still burned._

_Hours. It had to have been hours since they started. How much longer until he has learned his lesson? How much longer until they would finally stop?_

_Rough fingers are peeling back his eyelids. Obstructions shaped like stone faces partially block the light. Then thick powder blocks out everything._

_The powder is fire._

_Powder looks more like ashes, but this powder is undoubtedly fire. Fire and maybe sharp knives, slicing and burning away every nerve, from his sclera to his pupils to the irises that made his eyes that damned red._

_He claws at his eyes. They are melting and he does not need them anyway. He might as well tear them out of his skull._

_They pin his hands down. They rewrap the blindfold, so tightly that his tears cannot wash the fire and knives away._

_They might be speaking to him, trying to ensure he learns what he is being taught. More likely they are laughing at him. How amusing is he, the idiot boy who could not follow the one most important rule bestowed on him._

_He wants to laugh, too, but he cannot laugh and scream at the same time._

_He thinks that the single, blurry glimpse at_ that man _he had gotten is not worth this._

I should not still be alive.

_He is alone. He is hanging from the ceiling._

_He does not know how high. The floor could be inches beneath him or miles away. Perhaps not miles, because he can hear every drop of sweat that slid from his skin hit somewhere below. He has been left like this for a long time, tied up like meat awaiting the butcher._

_The rope binding his wrists to his ankles rub his skin nearly raw, and his hands have long since gone numb. He is too exhausted to use his neck muscles; he had no choice but to let his head hang back limply. It is no comfort—his locks of hair might as well have been barbells for all they weighed him down._

_He knows this is not the punishment._

_The door opens. It scraps mercilessly across the metal floor. Perhaps it is foreshadowing, or maybe a promise. There would be no mercy in this room._

_The door closes, the sound just as agonizing as when it opened. After, there are no other sounds at first. Then there is crackling. Then came the pain exploding across his whole back._

_They have lit a fire underneath him._

_He can smell his skin cooking. He does not know which is worse: the pain or the odor. Probably the pain. His flesh is melting, not figuratively._

_“Does it burn, whoreson?” a guard asks in his ear._

_Yes, the flames burn. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop._

_“Burn for your sins.” The Warden’s voice, then. His Master’s voice. “Burn for the sins of your sire. Burn for the sins of his sire. Burn for the sins of all who share his blood.”_

_He does not want too._

_If thoughts are a sin, then his Master should strike him down right where he hung._

_The thoughts do not change. He does not want to burn. He wants it to stop. He wants the fire to stop. He wants the pain to stop._

_He wants the breath in his lungs to stop._

_Smoke had just started to fill his nose when the blessing came. “Stop.”_

_The fire stops._

_The rope is cut. The floor is cool underneath him. It does nothing for his ruined remains._

_He feels... he does not know how he feels. He feels far away, farther away then he thinks he has ever felt. His flesh is dripping, swimming beneath him where the meat has turned liquid. Or maybe that is just blood, oozing out despite his weight trying to hold it in, staining the floor around him for all eyes to see._

_He thinks he is going to die._

_Even near death, the pain is still great enough to turn his stomach. He is vomiting, nearly choking on it, until someone turns his face to the side._

_It is his Master. His touch is gentle, and once he is done gagging, he turns into it. He wraps his hands around his wrist, holding him as tight as he can. He sobs into his palm. He is behaving so manipulatively, but his Master does not push him away._

_He cannot see the look of adoration, of amazement, of near exaltation, but he feels it._

_“Your punishment is done,” his Master promises, stroking his face softly. “You crave the pain I give you, don’t you?”_

_Perhaps he does. He always seems to end up right back here: bleeding, broken, soothed by the hand that hurt him._

_“Of course you do, because you are so perfect for me.” The Warden hums, sounding so pleased. “You can sleep now.”_

_He drifts off into sleep, and never wants to wake again._

Maybe he did crave the pain. He was still alive was he not? He should be dead and yet here he was, still drawing breath into lungs that did not deserve it.

It was not his right to, but he felt... disappointed.

They must have just arrived back. The numbness that had spread throughout his body told him that they were using his tail to drag him along. His legs must not be working anymore. He could remember the last time he had tried. 

The smooth bridge of the ship gave way to a hard, stone ground, and he knew that he was home.

Muted noise filtered in slowly, as if he were rising out of water but not yet breaking the surface. It sounded like cheering and clapping hands, coming from every side and direction. Momentarily, he was confused.

Then he remembered. Their mission had had a purpose, after all, and they had succeeded.

If his ears were working properly, the volume would probably be atrocious. He thought that there probably never had been a louder homecoming in history. It was as if every single citizen had come to welcome them back. He remembered how important the balls were apparently supposed to be, how they were the saviors of the Tene'mareen way of life and thought that might actually be so.

Regardless, the noise was still very grating to his headache.

They must have redressed him at some point, because it was not his naked skin that slid across the dirt now like it slid along the metal floors for the many hours he did not bother to count. He might as well be nude for all the clothing did to protect against the gritty stone he was being pulled across. Even so, the new scraps blossoming on his skin might as well be kisses for all they affect him.

He was not the only one being carted along the dirt, he realized at some point. The girl, the one who had tried futilely to run away, had been punished as well. He remembered her screaming very loudly when they ripped all of her long, dark hair from her scalp in bloody clumps, and the sound of her gagging as they strangled her to nearly the point of unconsciousness over and over again with her own tresses. He remembered her begging and then sobbing when they tore her wings from her back. He remembered her sobbing for hours after that.

She was still unconscious, her body gliding across the stone like a sack of meat. He listened, but he could not hear her breathing. His ears were still not working properly, but he thought it was likely that she was dead, now nothing more than a battered doll headed straight for the trash heap. If not, he imagined they would probably gather all the prisoners to watch them as they made an example of her execution. In any case, she would not survive the day.

He did not think he was in the same boat as her. If he had survived through his rest, he doubted they would allow him to die any time soon. 

Certainly not by his wounds at this point. The heat from the knife tearing apart his leg had certainly not felt great at the time, but the heat was enough to cauterize the injury as the blade was creating it, so he probably would not have to worry about that. As for his back and feet, he thought they might have wrapped the messes of damage in bandages, but it was hard to tell at the moment. If he was lucky, they might have even put a healing salve on him.

Suddenly his body was dragged unceremoniously over a large rock in the path, and the blunt edge made brutal contact with his backside, irritating his abused anus.

So, there was also that, but that was nothing new.

Or a bit new, he supposed. The Master hardly ever let the other guards have him in that way. The Master was a possessive man. He had told Chill more than once that his sinful flesh was only for him and him alone. _No one else will know this pleasure_ , the Master would whisper in his ear while his propelling hips split Chill's body in half, _you are mine. All mine_.

Even so, even one as simple as him understood the difference in situation. In that moment, Chill had not been serving the Master who cared for him the way no one else did. Chill was being punished for disobeying him, for betraying his trust, for daring to forget who he was and what he was. It had been necessary.

It was not the worst of his punishments, not by a long shot, but he had certainly not been fond of it. He did not like being used by guards whose names he did not know and voices he did not recognize. He did not like being taken by these men in front of everyone else.

It was such a stupid thing to dislike, and yet even the memory made him feel... badly. It was dirty, it was humiliating, it was so _awful_ , but that was the point, wasn’t it?

He preferred serving the Master. He knew the Master, and the Master was usually private. The Master would never tear into his body with dozens of eyes witnessing their coupling. The Master was only one man; he could not take him over and over and over again like they could. He could not constantly fill and refill his mouth, until the only thing inside of him was what came out of _them_ —

Chill abruptly felt sick, but he did not dare vomit. If they had truly starved him, then he would certainly be dead, so somewhere in his hazy memory they must have fed him something... something _else_. He was not out of the woodworks yet, and if he wanted to survive to see another day, he would have to preserve everything in his stomach for as long as he could.

...

 _Did_ he want to live to see tomorrow?

If his limbs were actually responding to his motion commands, he would have hit himself right across the face. Only four days he had been gone and already his mind had tainted enough to hold such thoughts as that.

It would be alright though, because he was home now. The days spent away had felt like a lifetime, but they were over now. If he were lucky, he would never leave again. His life here never bothered him the way Earth had. There was nothing to be confused about here, nothing that did not make sense, nothing that made the spot where his heart resided ache like it was splitting down the middle.

There was no man named Vegeta here, either. Not that it mattered. He did not want Chill anyway.

His fists clench and his toes curl tightly because he was... angry? Yes, he was angry. His heart hurt, too. He should not feel this way; he _never_ feels this way. He did not know what to do about it. He could not cry because of the anger, and he could scream because of the anguish. He could not do anything; all he could do was _feel_.

It felt as though he were drowning. Or maybe he was in one of those thunderstorms Neeila told him about. Whatever it was, it was taking his breath away. He was gasping but no air seemed to get through. He was trying to get away, but he couldn’t. He was not moving at all in fact—when had they stopped dragging him?—and if his limbs felt like jelly before they feel like lead now, stapled down to the ground so securely not even his fingers could move.

It was scary.

Finally, one of his hands was able to move, and he dropped it over his heart. He clawed at his chest, but whatever was hurting him was too deep to reach.

He wished he had never left in the first place. He wished he could go back to the days when he thought _that man_ was dead. He had gained nothing from learning that _that man_ had lived all this time. He had gained nothing from seeing him with his own two eyes.

For as long as Chill could remember, he had wondered about the man who had borne him. He could not help it; every orphan wondered what their parents were like. Even if they had photos, they wondered what they looked like when the cameras were off, or what their voices sounded like. They wondered what kind of person they were, if they had offered anything to the world aside from a parentless child.

He wondered. He even lied to himself, it seemed. He knew in his heart that Vegeta never wanted him any more than the Tyrant did. He _knew_ that, he really had, but maybe there was part of him that did not _want_ to know that. There was a part of him, always, that thought that maybe if Vegeta had been alive, things might have been different.

The dreams (the nighttime ones he could not control and the daytime ones he _could_ ) were so vivid sometimes. His head would lie on a soft chest, a gentle hand would stroke his hair. It was warm in the dreams, and so quiet. A voice would whisper in his ear, mostly words he could not understand or remember, but sometimes words that he could. At times, the voice would say the sweet things he had heard other parents say to their children.

_Come... rest now..._

_Precious thing..._

_I’ll keep you safe..._

Other times the voice would say other things, realer things, like they were memories he could not fully remember.

_I miss you..._

_Come back..._

_I wish you were here..._

_You’ll always be mine..._

He cherished everything his dreams would create, because the voice was _Vegeta’s_ voice. It was stupid to think that Vegeta could ever love a boy who held all of the Tyrant’s sins, a boy that had been forced upon him in the first place, but it helped, to think that even through his suffering there had been a time when he was wanted. It never hurt to wonder because he would never know.

Now, he did know.

Just one look, that was all he wanted. It had been a ridiculous risk, and had predictably not paid off in the end, but his mind had not been thinking of those kinds of logical thoughts. All he had thought about was how badly he wanted to see the man that had borne him, that he would never have a chance to do so again.

He had lifted the blindfold and looked. Through the blur of the sun and his own unaccustomed vision, he saw. He saw hair tall like a flame. He saw broad neck muscles and a face of hard lines. He saw black eyes staring straight back at him.

And it had not been worth it. Didn’t he know by now, that removing the blindfold never turned out well?

Vegeta had always seemed so far away. A dream that he could only desire, but never truly know. Yet, somehow, for a time Chill was so close he could have reached out and touched him. But what did it matter? Like before, Vegeta let them take him and never looked back. How much more would Chill need to understand that he was well and truly abandoned?

He jerked his head back, smacking it soundly off the ground, but the pain in his chest did not stop.

It used to feel good, to think about the one who mothered him. It made him feel light and content and good inside. Now it was all ruined.

He smacked his head off the ground again and again until finally a scream broke free. Then he was screaming and screaming. It felt good and it didn’t. It made him lighter but not enough. He was still crushed underneath the weight of it _all_ , and the pain wouldn’t go away.

He screamed until he could not anymore. His voice broke and died until it was weak and useless like the rest of him.

He was exhausted. He did not fight the feeling. He embraced it. He was eager for the peace his exhaustion brought with it.

Sleep had always scared him. It was not due to nightmares. In fact, he rarely dreamed most nights. The nightmares came sometimes, but even so he would not say they truly scared him. In the moment they were frightening, of course—he was not so emotionally detached to claim that they were not—and it was unpleasant to wake up covered in sweat and breathing like he had run for miles. Despite the fear they produced, however, nightmares were not real. The monsters that plagued his dreams held no power once the morning came. No, that was not what scared him. 

Only real things could truly scare him.

He could die in his sleep, and that would be real. Many prisoners died that way. He had awoken next to such souls on the barracks overly packed bunks a number of times. Sometimes, you could tell when a person would go. They would crawl onto the bunk with slow, useless bodies that had finally reached their limits. Their mouths would no longer form words, only a slew of gurgles and offhand moans, seemingly unaware of the noises they were making. Their eyes would look so eerily blank, as if their soul had already moved on and the body had yet to catch up.

Sometimes, though, you could not tell. Sometimes a prisoner would lie down for sleep like they would any other night. They would let sleep carry them away, not even thinking to imagine that once their eyes slid shut, they would never open again. 

Chill acknowledged that if he were ever so far gone as the former, he would not be in a position to care about his impending death one way or the other. Yet, the boy he was then, with a mind still capable of rational thought, would have cared. He did not know what it was like to die and he had never wanted to know.

He was not scared now. He did not know what he felt now. He did not want to die, but he did not think he would be terribly put-out if he did.

_Who gave you the right to think that way? Who gave you the right to be so dismissive of a life that is not wholly your own? Who gave you the right to accept the death of a life that has left so many sins still unpaid?_

No one, he knew, but he thought it all anyway.

He was home now, he reminded himself. He was back where things were right and made sense and never changed. He was sure that once he woke again, the pain would be gone, and everything would go back to the way it was.

It had too. He did not know what he would do if it didn’t.

_He never should have looked._

* * *

It had been hours since they left Earth. 

Every single one of those hours had been spent sparring. 

It ought to have been fairly simplistic as far as spars go. Mindful of the necessity to keep their spaceship intact, neither of them pushed past super saiyan. Additionally, they only made physical attacks on the other, aware of just how catastrophic a wayward blast could be. 

Even still, despite the limitations, their spar was not any less taxing. It had been hours, after all, and while neither were firing energy blasts, they certainly made up for it with punishing blows. Or at least, Vegeta certainly was. Sweat poured down his face in rivers, and his muscles were already beginning to sob with pain, but Vegeta did not care. If he had his way, it would be a long time yet before they finally stopped.

With that thought, Vegeta struck Kakarot with a particularly harsh blow to the chest. The other man flew back several feet, catching himself before he slammed into the wall. Instead of charging back into the fight, however, Kakarot looked up and asked, "So, do you know a lot about Teena... Tene... Tene'mareen?”

Vegeta dropped his fist and gave him an odd look. “What?”

“Do you know anything about Tene'mareen?” he repeated.

Vegeta blinked several times before he furrowed his brow. “What the hell do you want to know?”

Kakarot hummed in thought. “Well, I didn’t know that prison planets even existed. Why is it a prison planet? Did they just find some empty world and decide to put a bunch of bad people on it?”

Vegeta scoffed. “Why do you care?”

“I’m just curious,” Kakarot muttered, seeming offended at his interest being questioned.

Vegeta sighed, and likewise, sounded very put-out by the questions.

“I don’t know much. I was a teenager the only time I went, and I wasn’t exactly there for a history lesson,” he warns.

“Okay,” Kakarot said, and if he was at all curious about what Vegeta _was_ doing there, he did not say.

Vegeta sighed a second time as he leaned back against the wall behind him. He had been thinking of many things the night before. One of those things had in fact been Tene'mareen, despite how much he did not want to be plagued by it at all. The more his mind involuntarily drugged up thoughts of that gods forsaken planet, the clearer his memories became. 

“The Tene’mareen prison system is said to have been founded by a king called Hikso,” he starts. “They say that he started the system because he saw it as a way to use the harsh environment of their planet to make profit. He split up his planet into eight Divisions—like Earth continents—and registered it as a prison planet with the Planet Trade Organization. He assigned each of his eight children to control their own division as the ‘warden’, and the leadership passed from them down to their children and so on.”

Kakarot's face screwed up in thought. “So, it’s a prison system... that’s a monarchy?”

Vegeta shrugged affirmatively.

“That’s really weird,” Kakarot said, seeming unable to wrap his head around the concept. “Why would you need a whole planet just for other people’s prisoners? Wouldn’t those planets just take care of their criminals themselves?”

Vegeta shrugged again, this time in somewhat equal confusion. "I rarely concerned myself with the customs other planets. Tene'mareen is a truly abhorrent world, so perhaps they felt their criminals deserved a harsher fate than they could offer. Or perhaps they simply did not wish for their society to be tainted by lawbreakers. I really couldn't tell you. In any case Tene'mareen is not technically just a prison. There are just as many people there who have committed no crimes at all.”

Kakarot blinked, seeming to comprehend that even less. "What?" he asked, then clarified, "What do you mean there are people there who've committed no crimes?"

"I mean what I said," Vegeta answered, annoyed. Had Kakarot himself not commented on the far too young age of the children that had been paraded before them the day before?

Kakarot still seemed unable to grasp it. "Do you mean like... by mistake?”

"No."

"So, they do it on purpose?"

“Obviously.”

He began to look angry at that, and it was only then that Vegeta realized just why exactly Kakarot—good, righteous, naive Kakarot—was reacting the way that he was. “What kind of prison knowingly puts away people who haven’t even done anything?”

Vegeta had even less of a desire to finish the conversation than he had when they started, but clearly it was too late to turn back now.

It’s more like a... concentration camp," he answers reluctantly.

“What is a concentration camp?” Kakarot asked, his confusion not at all dampening the fire of anger in his eyes.

 _Hold on, let me just pull out my dictionary_ , Vegeta thought, irritably. “They put people there who aren’t necessarily criminals. Political enemies, or conquered races.”

Kakarot's jaw nearly dropped. He floundered for a moment, before demanding in a near anguished tone, “ _Why_?”

Vegeta shifted, feeling more than a little uncomfortable in the face of Kakarot's distress. “Why what?” 

“Why would they put innocent...” Kakarot shook his head. “If you... conquered a race of people, wouldn’t the conquerors be more likely to...”

“Kill them?” Vegeta offered.

“Yes. That.”

Vegeta sighed heavily, wondering why he had to be the one to explain such things to Kakarot. 

(Part of him also wondered what Kakarot would think of him, that Vegeta even knew the answer.)

(He reminded himself that he did not care what Kakarot thought of him.)

“Sometimes it is not enough to kill your enemies," he told him. "Sometimes you want them to know _pain_. In their body and I'm their minds too. That is what you get out of slavery, after all—people that are broken down to their very spirit. There is a sense of pleasure in knowing that someone is suffering a fate worse than death all from the power of your word."

Vegeta, feeling no desire to see what was playing on Kakarot’s face at the moment, allowed his eyes to catch onto the nearest window. Faraway stars zipped past the glass in near-mesmerizing lines of techno white.

"Sometimes, not even that is enough. Sometimes true satisfaction comes from knowing you have crushed them in every way you can. You destroy their culture in a way so they could never have it back, take away their entire way of life, trample on their dignity until they were less than an animal. Sometimes, true vengeance is knowing that they and they and their children and all the children after them will suffer for ever daring to cross you."

“Oh,” Kakarot said, and nothing else, his face so pale it was nearly white. He was looking at Vegeta like he had never seen him before, like one would a dangerous stranger.

"I wouldn't say I ever related to that desire," Vegeta could not help but to say, unsure why, but nonetheless feeling the need to clarify. "I'm sure you can imagine that it wasn't really my style."

After several moments, Kakarot said, "I hadn't thought so."

The prince only shrugged in response. "I've told you what you wanted to know, now let's continue this spar."

Kakarot dutifully slid back into his fighting position, but his face still looked the slightest bit ill, and the look in his eyes was somewhere distant, somewhere far away.

“Kakarot,” Vegeta barked in exasperation, though internally he acknowledged that perhaps he should not have been so blunt. Far past grown, yet Kakarot was still too naive for his own good.

“Yeah?”

“Your lack of concentration is insulting.”

“Sorry, it’s just I—” Kakarot cut himself off when the screen across the room caught his eye. “Woah, Vegeta. Maybe we should call it a night?”

Vegeta peered over at the screen. The digital clock with large, white numbers read Earth’s current time—12:50am. They had been sparring far longer than Vegeta both expected and intended.

Still, Vegeta scowled at the other man. "Weakling. Night does not even _exist_ here, but do what you want, Kakarot," he said, spitting out the name with as much distaste as he could muster.

Kakarot flinched at his tone. Vegeta turned away from him and began to throw punches out to the unresisting air.

Vegeta had no reason to be so cold with him, he knew. They were not friends, and Vegeta disliked him, but he had not shown the other saiyan this much disdain in a very long time.

That acknowledgement, what it implied about his own mental state, only served to make Vegeta even more irritated.

Vegeta was marginally surprised when an indulgent sigh came from behind him.

“Alright, Vegeta,” Kakarot said. “If you’re still good to go then so am I.”

Vegeta huffed, but still turned around and charged at the other saiyan again.

* * *

"I can scarcely believe it, sir!" exclaims the Correctional Officer Major sitting just to the side of him. Ziloh's previous one had died in a riot not long ago and he had yet to memorize this new one's name. And his face, in all honesty. In his defense, it was a very plain one. Despite the man's unnoteworthy appearance, Ziloh's son—whom he had left the task of procuring a replacement too in the first place—assured him that the man was qualified for the position. 

The major-with-no-name did not seem as though he was in that moment, not with his eyes bugging out quite unprofessionally at the dark chest sitting in the center of the table on the floor below. Luckily for him, Ziloh was not the type of warden to reprimand his subordinates for such a thing, however. Rather, he hummed in agreement. 

He could hardly believe it, either.

The last half an hour passed in a blur of excitement and triumph. One moment the ship was landing on Division III's tarmac and the next they—he, his heir, the unconscious body of the runaway girl whom he planned to execute once this was all through, and all the personnel high ranking enough to deserve to see the makings of history unfold—were here, seconds away from true victory.

Excitement ignited his blood. His heart pounded just from looking at the closed chest, just _knowing_ what was inside. He could scarcely manage to sit still, not with this burning high of life pumping through his every vein.

Now would be a wonderful time for a fuck, he thought, but unfortunately for him that form of celebration would have to wait. On this occasion he would have nothing less than the best, and the best was not available now.

The thought of _him_ only made the horniness worse. Beautiful memories flashed through his mind: of soft, pale skin and raven locks, of sweet screams in a voice too high for a man's, of an innocent face painted red with blood and tears and longing for control, for subjugation.

He could not help it—he shivered pleasantly at the thoughts that danced through his mind. No, nothing else could compare to his Angel. 

Yet Ziloh could not have him now. His Angel had been so good for him—nearly too good. He had soaked up every punishment like they were sips of water in a desert, and nearly drowned himself. Ziloh had pushed him so far that he nearly lost him, and that would not do. No, for now the boy would rest. He would rest until Ziloh's urges could wait no longer, but given the saiyan blood in his veins, that would certainly be more than enough time for him to heal and prepare for more.

And more would Ziloh give him. Never before had he wanted the boy to this magnitude. The thrill had always been there, of course. Ziloh was not a powerful man in body, nor a particularly influential one in the happenings of the wider universe, and yet _he_ was the one fucking the son of the galaxy's most hated tyrant.

The son of the handsome prince who snubbed him, as well. Even now, after all these years, Ziloh had not forgotten the prince who, despite his height, looked down on everyone and everything before him. He had forgotten the finer details of Vegeta's face, but never his black-flamed hair, never those sullen, dark eyes smoldering with contempt. 

For many moons after that one fated meeting, the prince consumed his dreams. He dreamed of beating the contempt from those eyes and replacing them with submission. He dreamed of how his deliciously small body would look underneath his. He dreamed of making that proud little prince surrender to his will.

They were fruitless dreams, he knew. He had known it even when, many years later, his infant son had been placed into his custody. The boy was a sorry replacement. Aside from the color of his hair, and perhaps some facial features, he did not even look all that much like Vegeta. More importantly, he would never act like him. Haughty arrogance and princely cockiness could not be replicated, especially not by one who had never known anything other than obedience.

Ziloh had grown to love his Angel, though. He might even love him more than he ever loved Vegeta. It was now _his_ little blindfolded face he saw in his dreams on the nights the boy spent in the barracks as opposed to between his sheets. There was a sense of power with him too, different than the one he would have liked to have experienced with Vegeta, but still just as strong. The boy was the spawn of two great lineages that were so powerful they destroyed each other, and he was warming Ziloh's bed whenever he desired it.

Ziloh could not have Vegeta—he had long since accepted that. He could have Chill though, a boy with a face that was still sweet and a body still sinfully young. He had forgotten Vegeta's face, but he would never forget his Angel's. He had made the boy his and his he would stay. Ziloh would not lose him, not to death, not even to the one who bore him.

Just remembering the near threat made him want that little body in his hands right now. He wanted to leave his marks all over him. He wanted to tear into that pale skin over and over again, until it was painted red with blood and white with seed from head to toe. He wanted to give him scars so thick they were ugly, so then everyone would see them, and all the rest of the mess, and know just who the boy belonged too.

 _Not yet_ , he told the fiery desire blazing hot under his skin. _Not yet, but soon._

Ziloh turned his attention back to the happenings before him. He watched gleefully from his position high above the proceedings, shielded by a thick, protective barrier. He would have loved nothing more than to be down there himself, to hold the balls in his own hands as they did his bidding. Alas, he could not. It had been a hard sell, but under the force of his advisors and his son, he conceded that activating the balls could very likely result in dangers unknown. So, from his spot high in the room, he watched as a lowly—but no less trusted—guard selected a sharp, silver key from the ring Ziloh had reluctantly handed over earlier. He watched as the guard pushed the key into the keyhole of the chest, turned it, then opened it.

There, waiting for all eyes to see, were the seven dragon balls.

They were truly beautiful. Small, colored like oranges plucked straight from a grove, with bright red stars in their centers. The balls glowed even before being used, rapidly, hardly letting even a second pass before the next glow of energy.

He would learn, later, that it was unnatural for them to glow this way. Now though, he only marveled at them.

"We can finally rid the universe of that _pest_ ,” Ziloh told his audience. 

"Yes, sir!" They called back to him, their eyes on him rounded in awe. He basks in their expressions of awe, of veneration. He had surely earned it—no other warden could say that they had disposed of the _pest_ , the one that was nearly as terrible as Frieza himself, could they?

“Father,” spoke up his son.

“Reiko,” Ziloh acknowledged.

“After..." his son stopped and cleared his throat. "After we rid the galaxy of the _pest_... would you consider making a second wish?”

Ziloh peered over at him. Reiko, his son, had wanted to come to Earth with Ziloh's retinue, had wanted to be a part of the crew that secured the glowing orbs that would change their lives forever so badly, but Ziloh had refused. As his heir apparent, Reiko was required to keep everything in the prison system in order, even during as short a trip as that one. Secondly, again as not only heir apparent, but the _only_ heir, his life was the most valuable in all of Division III, and despite Ziloh's own brand of recklessness for embarking on a galactic trip riddled with unknowns, he would not risk his son in the same manner.

Thirdly—and perhaps most important of all—Ziloh could not bear, in the face of possible failure, to see the disappointment that would overtake his son's face.

Reiko was like him in most ways. They were the same height, their hair was the same shade, and their eyes were the same piercing, navy blue. If Reiko had more age cracks in his face, they might have been twins. Yet, despite how Ziloh's blood so undeniably flowed through his veins, he and Reiko were not the same. 

Reiko felt emotions far too deeply. 

Looking at his son now, it was only too obvious. He was far past his adolescence, well into manhood, and yet he still could not manage so much as a decent poker face. Try as Reiko might to seem stoic, like his question was not of great importance regardless of what the answer was, all Ziloh saw was the face of the boy who used to ride atop his shoulders and cry when prisoners were beaten.

Ziloh crossed the room, and when he reached him, he laid a grounding hand on his shoulder. “Once the demon is gone, I shall wish for Hilla to return to life.”

The hope in his Reiko’s eyes was enough to make even Ziloh’s heart ache. “Really, father? It is possible?”

“It is,” Ziloh assured. “The loss of my granddaughter is not a pain I have forgotten, my son. But we can make it as if it had never happened.”

It pained him even now, nearly a year later, just to think about it. Hilla had been such a sweet girl. Beautiful, lively, scarcely past her eleventh year. She was so loved, his granddaughter, by her family and all who knew her. And then suddenly she was gone, attacked by rebellious and ungrateful prisoners, crushed and battered by rocks twice her size until her little body could take no more.

Ziloh had given each and every one of them—and then some—what they deserved. He had burned and flayed and tore off limbs and until they too gave into death’s embrace. There was no true satisfaction, though. He could punish and punish, but the only heiress of his only heir was still gone from them. Not only gone, but also in dire need of a replacement. Of course, Reiko knew just what was expected of him as heir, but how could you ask a man who had lost a beloved child to simply make another?

There was guilt, for if Ziloh had fathered more children himself, then his son would not have to consider such a burden, but alas, Reiko was his only son and Hilla his only granddaughter, and without her their line would not continue.

But now, that would change.

"She'll be back with me," Reiko whispered, seemingly to himself. "My child... she'll be with me again."

“Yes, my son,” Ziloh told him. “The _pest_ , first, but after I promise she will be ours again.”

Reiko’s eyes were wet, but at least his son was not so soft that he would let the tears fall. He nodded, and together, they turned towards the dragon balls once more. Everyone was silent, hardly daring to breath in the presence of the gleaming orbs. What could you say when the power of the gods was before your eyes?

You could only say what you demanded.

The fortunate guard, who had been bestowed the honor of addressing the dragon balls, said, “ _Draakballe, luister na my woorde. Met jou krag vernietig ek ons grootste vyand!_ ”

_Dragon Balls, heed my words. With your power, I destroy our greatest enemy!_

Moments passed, long enough for the anticipation that had nearly made his heart stop to slowly begin to dissipate.

Absolutely nothing happened. 

The ground did not shake, the sky did not change, and no dragon appeared. The balls themselves did not even so much as shudder with effort. They glowed on and on with no care for what and who they were disappointing.

More moments passed. A brave soul finally said, “Sir... nothing has happened.”

“ _I see that!_ ” Ziloh erupted. He abruptly pointed down to the guard in his line of sight. “You! Tell me why it has not worked. _Now_.”

The singled-out guard scrambled with the tablet another guard graciously handed him. He tapped a few times, then said, shakily, “Our data still only says the location of the balls and their appearance. Any more information Frieza may have gained is lost to us.”

Ziloh already knew this, and to hear it over again did nothing to mellow his rage. He pounded his fists against the table, before him so hard the wood cracked. " _Fuck_!”

“Sir, please do not be distressed,” another guard below said. “We have all the time we need to understand the mechanisms necessary to use the dragon balls. We will surely find the way to use them.”

Ziloh removed his hands from the indents he had made in the table. “Well, does anyone have any useful suggestions on how to activate them?”

No one made a sound.

He held himself back from the curses his rage made him wish to spill. He held himself back from peering at his son, from seeing whatever devastation must be painted over his face.

He declared, "I need a goddamn smoke. When I return there better be a dragon here or I'll put a bullet in _all_ your skulls," before storming from the room.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Made the Tene'mareen language Afrikaans, for absolutely no reason other than that I liked how it sounded on Google Translate.
> 
> For anyone that is confused, Tene'mareen is still a normal planet with homes and towns and schools, they just happen to be a prison planet on top of that.


	14. The Respite

Chapter Thirteen: _The Respite_

Sometime later, Chill woke up.

Or at least he thought he woke up. The line between awareness and unconsciousness had become so blurred in the past few days. Never mind consciousness, _life_ was no longer a guarantee. He could be dead and in line for judgement for all he knew. As close as he had come before, he had no experience with death. He did not know what it looked like or felt like. Perhaps this was death right here, stuck in this limbo between reality and the darkness that comes just after a nightmare ended.

It would be a miserable enough experience, he thought.

He dug the jagged nail of his forefinger into his thumb just to be sure. It was only after he felt a sliver of warm blood seep past his knuckle when he conceded that he was probably still alive. If one did feel pain in the afterlife, he imagined a damned soul like his would have to endure far worse than the sharp sting the injury caused.

He was a bit more disappointed by this revelation than he had been the first time he woke once again in the world of the living. Perhaps he should sleep and try again. They say that the third time was a charm, right?

Before he got the chance to go through with his admittedly morbid plan, the sound of shuffling feet caught his ears. The sound grew louder, and he knew those footsteps, because only she could make the crunch of her boots on hard stone of all things sound distinctive.

He did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. The thought barely had a chance to come to pass before he was already berating himself. No matter how he felt, he should never think badly of her that way.

Still, he really wanted her to go away. He did not want her to see him this way, so broken he could not even pick his face up out of the dirt. Even more so, he did not think he could handle the level of energy she seemed to have no matter the time or circumstance of the day.

Perhaps if he stayed really still, she would leave? If he were lucky, she would think he was dead and be on her way. 

Not actually lucky, he supposed. She would be really hurt if she thought he was dead. Though he doubted she would fall for it; she was smart enough to know that they would not allow him a death that was anything less than spectacular.

As expected, she said, "You think you can leave for countless days without even saying bye and ignore me the moment you get back? Fat chance, Chill." She sighs dramatically. "I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, you know. I was so scared for you and this is how you're treating me? How very cruel of you."

Well, it was worth a try.

He used just about all the strength he had to turn his head to the side, giving her his attention. He imagined her smiling very brightly at him.

He had no right, but he always found himself wondering about her appearance. Chill had seen her, but only once. He did not remember why he risked it. He thought it might have been an impulsive decision. He did remember every detail he had seen, however. 

She was taller than him, almost by a whole head, but he already known that. Her hair was long, and very bright. Blonde, she had called it, when he asked. Her ears were sharply pointed, her nose small like a button, and her eyes electric green. Across her sunken, pale cheeks were glittery birthmarks, like a collection of crystals embedded in her skin. Her lips were dry and brittle, her stomach was concave, her body was bony—just like his.

She was the nicest thing he had ever seen.

He wondered if she still looked the same. It had been so long since that day.

His eyes had scared her, just like everyone else. She cried and screamed until he put the blindfold back on. It was too late to curb the damage by then. She had not talked to him for a long time after. 

When she sought him out, she had shockingly apologized, seeming to believe she had been wrong for reacting the way she had. Chill had not understood her reasoning. She had not been wrong for her reaction. Neeila... liked him, but she had the same limits that everyone else had.

That was the last time he had taken his blindfold off. At least, until a few days ago. He should have remembered that no good thing came from taking it off.

He jumped when a bowl clattered by his face.

"It's mine," Neeila said. "I figured you'd be hungry, so I brought it for you."

His stomach growled. He did not move though. His body had not gained much strength in the thirty seconds that had passed.

She sighed, though it sounded indulgent. “I’m not a nurse, you know.”

Despite her words, he felt her hands on his shoulders. She rolled him onto his side, and in one fluid motion, pulled him up onto his rear. His head lolled back against her chest, his hair nuzzling against her neck. They were... uncomfortably close, but she did not move away and neither did he.

The bowl was pressed against his lips, and he dutifully opened his mouth. The porridge was a lukewarm mix that could only be described as sludge, and it hurt his throat to swallow but it tasted uncannily like heaven.

Even better was the separate container of water she had brought for him. He was swallowing the last of it when he felt her fingers creeping up his face.

“What is this?” she asked, the tips of her fingers smearing the powder from his skin to hers. He heard her sniff and immediately sneeze violently, just the slightest whiff having set her sinuses aflame.

He heard her unscrew another jar of water—the one she must have brought for herself. She tugged on him until his head was lying completely back against her, tipped up towards the sky. She started to pull on his blindfold, and the panic that would normally ensue was useless against the force of his exhaustion. He knew he should protest anyway, but he didn’t. 

When the blindfold was out of the way, a slow trickle of water began to fall gently over his eyelids. He did not bother to tell her that the pain had already subsided to a dull sting. He lets her clean the mess away until the jar was empty.

“Bastards,” she said as she dried his face with her bare arm, and he did not bother to correct her on that either. He knew by now that Neeila was an opinionated girl. Just thinking such things about his superiors would make his stomach clench with anxiety. For her, it was a "coping mechanism".

Once she was done tending to him, she wrapped the blindfold back around him—inside out this time so the clean side was now against his skin. She tied it gently, mindful not to catch any strands of his hair. She left it snug on his face, not nearly as tight as he was used to. He did not tell her to tighten it. He did not say anything at all, and neither did she.

Long moments passed in silence. Despite finishing her work, she did not move him away. Rather, her arms moved to wrap loosely around his shoulders, holding him gently against her. They have never laid like this before, never even held skin contact this long. He was unsure how he should feel about it. Mostly, he just felt his persisting desire to sleep.

Eventually, she said, “They gave us the day off,” the answer to a question he had not even wondered about, but probably should have. "Guards and overseers from all over the planet are partying ‘til they’re purple for the success on Earth. There’s only a handful of guards actually on watch."

He said nothing. He already knew what she was going to say next.

As expected, she leaned in close and whispered, as if there was even anyone around to overhear, "The others are planning to start an uprising."

Of course, they were. That was all anyone ever thought about: running away, revolting, finding freedom.

Chill did not understand it. He did not even know what that meant, truly. What was freedom? Was it never having to work? What would one do with their days then? Was it more food? How could you get more food if you did not work for it? Where did one go for “freedom”? 

Certainly, nowhere on this planet. The Tena towns and cities were for natives only and anyone who was not was a prisoner by default. “freedom” had to be elsewhere, and if one could actually manage to leave, where would they go? Many were true criminals—their home worlds would not accept them back—and others were like Neeila, with home worlds that were raided and ravaged and sold away so it was no longer theirs. Perhaps there were even some like Chill, who never had a home to call their own before this one.

So where would they go? A place like Earth? A place that seemed inviting and peaceful but would always be someone else’s? How could anyone be happy somewhere like that—surrounded by people who were not like them, in a place that was not their own and never could truly ever be?

Chill thought of the cheerful, happy boy with whom he shared a parent, and thought no, that could never belong to him.

He belonged here, though. He belonged to the stone under his feet, to the sweltering heat, to the sludge-porridge, to the barracks, to the coal mines, to the Warden, and even to Neeila, too.

The other prisoners would not succeed. They never had and they never would. They would be put down with humiliating ease as they always were, and they always would be until they understood like Chill did.

He did not say any of that though, especially because Neeila already knew he was thinking it anyway. They sat in silence, cuddled together as they were. It was nice to just sit like this—even if the prolonged contact was incredibly strange—with nothing to do aside from this right here. _Relax_ , was the word. Chill could not remember the last time there was a day like this. From the time the day began there was work to be done. The only “relaxing” time to be had was if you did not immediately fall asleep once the day was done.

Chill thought it would be nice to have more days like this.

The silence, though, did not last for long. It never did when Neeila was involved. She spent just as much time talking as she did working; Chill had heard her brother say that once. That was clearly an exaggeration and just about impossible, so Chill suspected he had been joking when he said that.

“Did you meet him?” she asked him, and for a full second Chill did not know who she meant.

Then that man flashed through his mind, and his whole body went stiff. In an attempt to delay the inevitable, he wondered how she even knew about his apparent survival and newfound life on Earth.

He felt her frown against his hair. When she spoke, it was as if she had read his mind, but he was used to that. Neeila always seemed to know what he was thinking. “When the guards from your mission were going into the grand building, I heard them saying that the saiyan prince had been on Earth.”

She never called him by his name, neither did she call him his mother or parent, and Chill had always liked it that way. Now, however, the moniker meant nothing when he knew the truth.

"So that’s a yes, then?” She prompted as her hand started to rub circles behind his ear. He always liked that.

He forced the rigid muscles in his neck to nod.

She hummed in understanding. “It must not have gone well, then.”

He was confused by that. She must have sensed it regardless because he felt her sigh heavily.

“I thought that you would have stayed with him.”

Chill did not know what to say to that. He did not want to acknowledge that a part of him—the smallest, most idiotic part of him—might have thought the same thing.

Chill turned away from her as much as his position allowed. He did not want to think about that man. He did not want to feel that pain anymore, not ever again.

“I know it’s really selfish of me,” she said, “but I am glad to see you. If only because it would have been unforgivably rude of you to leave without even saying goodbye.”

He did not point out that he had left for the mission less than an hour after it had been assigned, so there was absolutely no way he could have tracked her down and bid farewells in that time. He had learned over the years to not take everything she said literally.

“Also, I would have missed you, a whole lot,” she admitted.

That was... a bit surprising. He could not imagine what about him she would miss. He knew that he was not good company, that he was too quiet, too distant, aloof, even. He was selfish with his food and ignored her whenever he wished. Despite his treatment of her, he still leeched off of her acceptance of him. He always had, even when they were young. So many games she had missed out on because the other children, influenced by the hatred of their parents, would not let him join as well. Even when they would let him play, he never did it right—never kicked the ball correctly, never ran when his time came, never knew which way to go when he—and all of his oddities reflected off on her.

There was no denying that he held her back. He was the iron ball of a chain around her ankle, and that she had locked the shackle herself did not make him any less of a weight.

He knew what he would miss of her. He would miss her voice. He would miss it very much. He would miss the words she would say, and the way it sounded when she sang, and when she spoke her native language. He would miss the tug of her hand when she dragged him along on whatever adventure she was set on having. He would miss the twinkle of her laugh. He would miss the way she warmed the air around him. He would miss the way her presence made him feel, just for a moment, like he had never known anything but contentment.

In comparison, Chill was not a very good... friend, he knew. He was probably the worst friend a person could have. She was still here with him though.

 _I have nowhere else to go but here either_ , he thought.

She was quiet, so quiet he could hear her boots shifting almost restlessly in the dirt. He knew she wanted to say something more.

Whatever it was, she seemed to decide against it. Instead, she said. “I found out that I am sixteen, today.”

He turned back towards her; his brow furrowed.

"When I was listening in on the guards, they also said 'Age 774 will go down in the history books', or something like that.” She paused. Chill could hear her brush her fingers through her hair. “I know I came to this planet in Age 761, when I was four years old, and I was born in the first month of the year so..."

He heard her swallow, her jaw trembling just enough for him to feel it. Her voice only wavered a bit when she said, “Thirteen years. I’ve been on this planet for thirteen years.”

He supposed that must be a long time. The passage of time was not something he understood all that well. A day began and a day ended. Why did it matter how many days had passed when they were all the same, and always would stay the same? It seemed to matter to Neeila though. He wondered if he should be comforting her now, but he would not know what to do even if he were inclined to try.

“Have I ever told you that my people do not only celebrate an individual on the day of their birth?” she asked him.

For probably the millionth time during this conversation, he was confused. Again, not an uncommon occurrence while talking with her. He shook his head.

“We still did, but it was not all that important of an occasion. We actually used to celebrate every time a child lost a baby tooth. It was always a huge celebration, even more grand than a birthday. Losing a tooth allowed for permanent teeth to grow in." 

She paused to think for a moment. "Logically, I think the importance had to do with the food we ate. Even the plants were so tough that adults would have to chew their children’s food for them until they could do it themselves. Socially though, once you had a full set you were... not grown, I suppose, but no longer considered a child. You could hunt or gather your own food, begin learning a trade. At that time, you were responsible for your own actions in the eyes of Goddess."

There was a subtle change in her voice then. Now it was something soft, something nostalgic. "We kept all our baby teeth and wore them as a necklace. It was a reminder that while one had grown, one was not truly an adult yet. In my culture, one is not considered an adult until they have had their first child, or claimed one as their own, for only once you have contributed to the future can you move away from the past. Then, there was a final ceremony in which you destroyed all of your baby teeth.

“We only kept teeth when someone we loved dearly passed—in fact, it was a sign of a life well lived if you had so many people who cherished you that you were buried with not a single tooth left in your mouth," she continues. "You would take their tooth and never be rid of it, because you could no longer have a future with that person. They were only a part of the past and it was a part that you could never forget. Many of our elders would have not only a necklace, but even bracelets and anklets full of permanent teeth, because they had spent so many years loving and losing people. When the day came that you finally died, the teeth of those you loved would be buried with you, so even in death they were a part of you.”

She stopped then, and when she started again, her words were no longer blissfully soft. “Can you believe that I forgot all of that?” she asked incredulously. “We tried to keep our traditions in the beginning, I remember, but it became too hard to bother with once the working and hunger and suffering began."

The change was more noticeable now. Where once was nostalgia, was now the aching of loss. "I have not seen anyone else like me aside from my brother in a very long time. There may be some who had been shipped to other divisions still alive, but I’ll never know. My mother told me once that our people could live for a whole century, yet, it has only been thirteen years and there are hardly any of us left and I _forgot_."

Her voice broke around the last word. He could feel the laboring of her breathe, like the words were weights she had no choice but to lift. He did not hear the beginnings of tears, though.

“Thirteen isn’t an all bad number, though," she said after a while. "That’s how old you are, you know.”

He had not known, though he supposed he could have put that together from her earlier information. In all honesty, he had thought he was older. The Warden’s granddaughter had been eleven and she was considered a child, far too young for the death that had befallen her. 

Chill had not felt like a child since the day they walked him outside the grand building and told him it was now his responsibility to keep himself alive. He remembered nothing about the time before that. Maybe he had never been a child.

“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. About my home, I mean,” Neeila said. “It had been so beautiful. There were trees all around and green, green grass everywhere my feet went…”

He imagined her looking up at the sky above them, then. “The sky was not like here at all. No, the sky was always changing. Sometimes it was a dark blue, glowing from the light of the moon. Sometimes it was white with rainy clouds and bright from the sun. The sun lights shined on everything: the raindrops, the _cristalli_ in our skin, everything our eyes could see. And when there was no sun, there were stars—billions of bright footprints in the sky left there for us by Goddess.... We were made for that place, Chill, and I remember it all. It has been so long, but I still remember. I forgot about how deeply teeth meant to my people, but never that...”

She huffed a laugh, a single sad and pitiful sound. “I wish I could take you there so you could see. I used to daydream about bringing you there, bringing you home with me. I want to see what you would look like surrounded by everything that shaped me, but I know that it is not the same place I remember. It’s probably better that I never go back.”

She shook her head, as if dispelling the bad thoughts that tag along with her words. “Still, I know that I’m fortunate to have the memories that I do, to have once had a place that belonged to me. It isn’t fair that you’ve never had a place like that."

She paused, and so did his heart in his chest.

She carried on with, "All of these memories I cherish, a sense of belonging somewhere deep inside me, and you have nothing. I thought that maybe you would find what I had on Earth, with the saiyan prince. I thought that, even if I missed you, it would be for the better, if you could have a place like that.”

 _Here,_ he thought. _I belong here._

“Everyone deserves to belong somewhere," she insisted. "Even you. _Especially_ you. A child belongs with their parents, and to my people, to forsake your child is to forsake yourself. If the saiyan won’t accept you, then he never deserved to have you, and he will have to answer to Goddess for that.”

Her hands suddenly grabbed his shoulders. She turned him to face her, and though he could not see her, he could feel her eyes looking straight through him.

"If this is the only place you can belong, then I belong here too," she told him, leaving no room for argument. "I belong wherever you do. _I_ will not forsake you.”

He gaped at her, truly dropped his jaw. In his chest, his heart pounded beats like a steady drum. Mortifyingly, a heavy lump formed in his throat.

What had he done to deserve such commitment from her? He did not know, and he probably never would. He liked it, though. Gods spare him, he knew he did not deserve it, but he liked it. He did not think he would ever treasure anything more than her devotion to him.

He could practically feel the brightness of her smile as she said, playfully, “I love our little heart-to-hearts, don’t you?”

He might feel the same, he thought.

She stretched her arms high over her head until her muscles popped. “Come on. Herio told me to meet him on the Northwest Cliff. He said he would be meeting with others there to best plan the escape.”

Chill liked Neeila, so he did not rudely groan at her words, but he certainly felt the desire to do so. Herio was not exactly the last person he wanted to see, but he was certainly high on that particular list. Furthermore—he thought as he struggled to so much as lift his torso—climbing a cliff was not exactly something he wanted to do at the moment, either.

“Actually, don’t move,” Neeila said, and he gratefully slumped back against her. “You are going to need all the rest you can get before the escape, so I’ll just carry you.”

He gave her a skeptical look. She not only planned to carry him all the way to the cliffside, but also then carry him _up_ it? An image flashed in his head of her climbing up precarious rocks with himself dangling from her neck like a sack on a stick and thought it would probably be the best method to bring about their collective demises.

“What’s _that_ look supposed to mean?” she said, affronted.

He circled a hand around her bicep and squeezed exactly where no muscle existed.

“How rude! You’re not exactly winning any bodybuilder contests yourself, you know! In fact, I distinctly recall you losing every arm-wrestling match we’ve ever had so you are in no position to be calling anyone weak!”

If every muscle in his body did not feel like the sludge he had eaten, he might have graced her with a smile. He knew it was odd, but he liked it when she was indignant like this. 

He shifted as she stood to her feet. He heard her circle around and come to a stop in front of him. “On my back now, and _when_ I make it up the cliff with ease, you owe me all the meat in your stew tomorrow.”

She bent down then and, seeming not to care how uncooperative her companion was, grabbed onto his wrists and pulled them over her shoulders. He reluctantly tightened his grip and shifted his knees to bring them around her hips. To her credit, she only swayed slightly when she straightened back up.

It had been a very long time since he let her carry him this way. When they were small, Neeila was always coming up with the strangest games for them to play. One of her favorite games was to pretend they were soldiers, and when one of them was “wounded in action”, the other would have to carry them and run to where she deemed was “safety”.

Neeila did not run now. She walked steady and slow, not at all like a person who had somewhere to be. It was... soothing, almost. The rhythmic rocking of her body, the warm, solid surface of her back, the soft humming he could distantly hear... He would almost say she was trying to put him to sleep.

A beat later, she confirmed it. “Rest, Chill. I’ve got you.”

He should argue, but he didn’t. He dropped his head onto her shoulder, buried his face in her hair, and once again slept.

* * *

Let Goku start off by saying that there were very few things he loved more than training.

Most people could not handle living on a planet they could hardly walk on because of the gravity. Most people could not spend two years of their life inside a chamber with not even so much as a changing sky to distract from the endless white. Most people could not push their body to its peak and then push it some more, until all they could not even remember a time when their muscles did not ache with agony.

Goku could handle it all, because he loved to train.

Be that as it may, apparently even he had limits.

He had stopped counting the hours after the twelfth came and went with no sign of even so much of a break. Goku was no stranger to lengthy training sessions. Though there was usually some variety, like meditation. Even more preferable would be to simply practice his katas, it was not hard to push his body for long hours when he could focus all his attention on ingraining a set of attacks into his memory.

Trying to prevent a punch from going into his neck when his eyes were blurring with exhaustion was not quite as easy.

A kick was aimed at his face this time that Goku only barely dodged. He did not even need to look at the clock to know that they were well into the second day. They had been going hard since then. Vegeta refused to stop, even when Bulma tried to reach them twice. The only reprieve Goku got was the bathroom trips he _insisted_ upon.

No food, not even so much as a snack... Goku was quickly getting fed up.

The knee Vegeta launched brutally into his ribcage did not seem to particularly care how he was feeling.

Goku understood, he really did. Or at least, understood that he _didn’t_ understand. He couldn’t imagine what Vegeta must be feeling. Goku did not understand what it felt like to lose a son, not permanently. He did not understand what it was like to see his child go through terrible pain. He had seen Gohan get hurt in fights before, had seen him get hurt in a fight he himself had foolishly instigated, but he knew that that pain was not at all like the pain Vegeta's son has gone through.

He could relate a bit to lost time, he supposed. Goku himself had not even known that his second son existed until he was seven years old. He remembered the day he first saw him, peeking from behind his mother's pant leg, and the joy he felt at seeing a new, tiny face that looked just like his.

Goku did not think Vegeta was feeling any joy. Goku knew that discovering a sweet, happy boy was far different than believing your child was dead only to find that he was alive and had been tortured all his life. The situations were completely different, were hardly even in the same reality.

Still, he thought he might understand Vegeta just a bit, because while Goku had been so happy and he loved Goten very much, sometimes it bothered him just to look at the boy. It... hurt when he thought too hard about how tall he was, and to hear a voice that was far past the stage of stumbling over sentences. It hurt when he thought about how old Gohan was too, but he at least got to know him before he died. He saw Gohan take his first steps, say his first word, sit through his first haircut. He had had time to be a father, at least in the years Chi-Chi insisted were most crucial.

He missed the first seven years of Goten’s life, and while he knew his son was well taken care of in his absence, it still did not feel good at all to think about it. Vegeta missed thirteen years and did not even have the comfort of a happy, well-raised child to reunite with. 

So Goku got it. He did not understand but he knew where Vegeta was coming from. Vegeta obviously did not want to talk about it either, which was more than understandable.

That did not change the fact that Goku was about three seconds away from collapsing and sleeping until the next coming of Buu.

Or perhaps it wouldn’t be his exhaustion that knocked him out. The fist Vegeta slammed into his face seemed like it would do the job just fine.

“ _Ow_!” Goku cried out, stumbling back on legs that were somehow still managing to hold his weight. He cupped his palm around his injured nose, the blood streaming down seeming to take the rest of his strength with it.

Vegeta blinked, having the audacity to look shocked. He frowned and crossed his arms. “You could have easily blocked that, Kakarot.”

“Yeah, well, you still didn’t have to hit me that _hard_ ,” Goku shamelessly complained.

Vegeta muttered something about ‘third-classes’ and ‘clowns’. Goku ignored him.

Vegeta watched him for a few moments, then said, exasperated, “Kakarot, stop... whatever it is you’re trying to do. Tilt your head forward.” Under his breath he said something that sounds similar too, “ _you’re like a child_ ,” which Goku also ignored.

“If I tilt my head forward then I’ll bleed all over the place.”

“Just do it.”

Goku did as he was told, and when Vegeta told him to pinch his nose, he did that as well. Then Vegeta was turning on his heel and leaving, heading down the staircase until the spiky tips of his hair disappear from view. By the time Goku had slid onto the floor, Vegeta was already returning, a clean, white washcloth in hand. Goku took it without comment, though he figured his gratitude was noted.

A few moments passed, before Vegeta slid down to sit next to him. Goku felt his entire body sag in relief at the confirmation of a break. He hid the relieved expression on his face by focusing on the cloth beneath his nose.

Vegeta seemed not to notice either way, his eyes focused on the window across the room. Goku looked toward the window as well. They were going so very fast, but the distant gleam of the stars dotting through the black backdrop of space hardly changed. He remembered when Gohan was younger, he had read something in a book about space travel and planets and something called a ‘parallax’. Goku couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was talking about, but he listened if only because his son seemed so excited to share it.

Goku trailed his eyes from the window over to the man next to him. His skin was moist with sweat, droplets still rolling in lines down his face, sections of his royal-blue spandex clearly dampened with it. Enough time had passed that they were no longer gasping with exertion, and it was almost odd to see him so quiet after all the grunting and groaning they had just been doing. Now, his lips were simply sealed shut, the edges tipped down in a frown. That was normal though, Goku probably couldn’t even use up one hand counting the number of times he had seen Vegeta genuinely smile.

He looked up almost reluctantly at the profile of Vegeta’s eyes and saw exactly what he had seen since the ship left the Earth’s atmosphere.

Absolutely nothing.

There was no sadness, no frustration, no grief, not even a trace of rage. Goku had not known Vegeta very long, but in all the time that he had, he had never seen him like this. Vegeta was actually a very expressive person. When he was amused, you would know, and when he was angry, he made _sure_ you would know that as well. Vegeta could be reserved—he certainly was not so open when he was happy, but even still, you could look in his eyes and _know_.

There was nothing to be found in his eyes now. His eyes were two blank holes, twin black seas, both so devoid of life that there was nothing left to even ripple the surface.

His eyes were just... calm. Too calm. Like the calm before a storm.

It was more than a little unsettling, especially since Goku knew it was a lie. Vegeta was feeling something, he knew he was. Goku had seen with his own eyes just how raw and pure Vegeta’s rage could be. He had seen the pain Vegeta felt when Buu killed Bulma. He had seen Vegeta’s tears even back before he called him a friend, when Frieza took his life and he begged him, a near stranger, to avenge him.

Vegeta felt something, and whatever it was, it was too deep for his eyes to reach. It was still there, though.

Goku was not... entirely sure what he should do about it. Chi-Chi used to joke (and not joke, when she was truly hurting), that Gohan had more sensitivity as an infant than Goku did as a full-grown man. He had never been the best with emotions. He did not always understand why Chi-Chi would start sobbing seemingly out of nowhere, or why Bulma would suddenly start yelling at him, or why his friends, while usually short-lived, would seem so angry with him at times. He had absolutely no idea how to make the empty look in Vegeta’s eyes go away.

He did not even know if he should dare to try.

"Um... Vegeta," Goku starts eloquently. To his surprise, the man in question actually looked over at him.

“What?” he answered, and he did not even sound annoyed or irritated anymore. He sounded...

Honestly, he sounded like he needed a nap.

Goku made sure to word his question carefully. It wouldn’t go well for Vegeta to think he was asking for a _break_ of all things. That was the best way to end up sparring until the ship landed on the damn planet. “Do you, um... Do you want to get some food? We technically haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Vegeta took his time answering, and Goku tried not to be too obvious that he was holding his breath in anticipation.

He was not quite sure if Vegeta’s grunt was a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, until the other saiyan stood to his feet. Vegeta was halfway across the chamber towards the staircase once more when he realized that the grunt meant the former.

Goku was very surprised. Not even an hour ago Vegeta looked as if he wanted to rip Goku’s head straight off his neck every time he opened his mouth, and now he was calmly agreeing to eat with him like they were old chums?

Women as a whole were probably the most confusing people to Goku, but Vegeta sure gave them a run for their money.

Deciding not to dwell on the unknown and instead focus on what was clearly a hard-won victory, Goku tossed the now-useless bloodstained cloth aside and followed after him.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cristalli – Crystals.


	15. The Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes violence and abuse against a child.*

Chapter Fourteen: _The Girl_

**_The Past:_ **

Neeila had been a little girl when she met Chill the first time.

She remembers the day, every detail, in fact. She remembers waking that morning and eating her breakfast of two small squares of hardtack—and a piece of her mother’s—along with a lukewarm mug of tea. She remembers standing in the line for roll call. She remembers picking up the smallest axe she could find, still nearly as long as she was tall. She remembers being dragged down towards the end of the line with her brother, with other children or those the size of one, where the stone was softened from erosion and more easily destroyed but her childish strength.

Her brother had guessed they were digging for a new sewage line, though it was entirely possible that they were digging for no reason whatsoever. They did that sometimes, spent hours unearthing a plot of land just to refill it, or carrying stones on their backs and carrying them right back, simply because the guards needed a good laugh or couldn't think of anything better to do with the prisoners in their care for the day.

Neeila figured it didn't really matter. Neither reason made the work any easier.

Her mother was not too far and when she dared to look up, she could see her. Thin and pale, like what Neeila imagined the undead souls her brother used to talk about to scare her back when monsters weren't real, looked like. Her spine was permanently slumped, and her head had hardly any strands of brittle blonde left, her bald spots then so numerous she might as well not have had any hair at all.

Herio had thought she might have been growing sick. Neeila had not liked to think of it at all.

(Her mother had been sick.)

(Her mother had not been sick for long after that.)

It had been hours since she had first started by then. The softened stone had only been advantageous for a short while. It was better than working down in the mines, for sure, but not by a substantial amount. The work still had her arms growing numb and she could hardly see or breath from the sweat washing down her face.

Even so, at least there was light so she could see, and the heat was not quite so terrible in the open air. 

Also, at least on the surface there was something of a view. From here she could see the grand building, only a couple hundred feet away. The building was dreadfully ugly: tall, built with thick bricks the color of cooled ashes, and a slanted roof painted several shades darker. On the top of the roof was something that looked as though it may be a clock, but Neeila could not yet decipher the Tene symbols. Additionally, there were several windows across the first and what must have been the second floor, but nothing could be seen from the outside looking in. The doors—two brass colored slabs—however, were in constant motion. Several times, already, had the doors swung open as the guards switched posts.

Perhaps it was not truly exciting in retrospect, but anything was better than staring at black stone walls for hours on end.

She remembers staring at that door like she always did when she had the chance, watching patiently for movement, because even waiting was keeping her mind off the sharp pain growing in her back and the numbness growing in her biceps as she swung over and over and over and over and—

The doors swung open and out stepped the Warden. She was surprised to see him, so much so that she froze. She had seen him enough times to recognize his face but not enough times to dull the anxiousness his presence induced.

He had been just as tall and scary as he always was, lips pulled back into their usual smirk, his eyes both wild and utterly dead at the same time. He looked like a predator waiting to snap at any moment, but at the same time could not be bothered to move in for the kill. Why would he need too? Surely his prey would come gladly to its death because why would it choose to do anything else, his eyes seemed to say.

She shivered at that, so unsettled by him that she had almost missed the boy by his side.

He was small, so small that she wondered idly where his mother was because surely, he must still be feeding from her breast. Hearty meals he must be getting from her too, because while he was small, he did not look at all sickly. That was to be expected though, she supposed, given that he was coming from inside the grand building. 

Out here, not many women had babies. Neeila had heard that most mothers could not produce long lasting supplies of milk on their "standard issue" diets, and usually died trying, if their baby had not already perished from disease or from a particularly unfriendly guard deciding he was in a baby killing mood. Unless the mother somehow managed to get herself transferred to work inside the grand building, babies usually did not last long in the divisions. It was a miracle any survived at all.

The boy had come from the grand building, though, so his mother must have been healthy enough to in turn keep him healthy as well. Everyone inside there looked healthier. While their meals were not necessarily larger, their workloads were apparently drastically less taxing. 

Neeila wondered again who his mother was. She must be quite pretty, to have been chosen to work inside the grand building. Neeila had heard that only people with pretty faces got to work inside, though why that was she was not entirely sure. Her own mother had been quite pretty apparently, back before starvation had eaten away at her muscles and sunken her skin. If it were not for the wounds her mother had all over her face from fighting to defend their home, she might have been taken inside as well.

Abruptly, Neeila stopped wondering about the boy's mother. She took in the blindfold wrapped around his face and knew exactly who he was.

Her whole body went cold.

His presence frightened her, but her eyes refused to look away. She had no choice but to take him in. His hair was black and looked full enough from where she was standing. His skin was alarmingly pale, like the sun had never so much as grazed it (a poor comparison, for while the sun's light and heat broke through the barrier of clouds across the sky, never did its rays, so really they were all probably as pale as fabled blood-suckers), but not sunken. His cheeks even held a hint of chubbiness to them. He was nothing at all like her, with brittle bones that poked through her paper skin, and limp hair that fell from her head and onto her makeshift pillow every night in clumps.

The crack of a whip assaulted first her ears then across her shoulder blades, the barbs tearing through her shirt and deep into her skin with equal ease. The blow knocked her to her knees, nearly had her face in the dirt. She did not notice the bite of the rocks beneath her, because the burning of the wound had begun to spread, guided by trails of her spilt hot blood, and it was more than enough pain to monopolize her attention. 

She wailed, the sound tearing from her throat desperately, because there was only so much agony she could bear to hold inside.

" _Werk!_ " A guard said behind her, the word she had by then learned meant _'work'_ in Tenego.

Her throat twisted into knots and tears pricked at her eyes. She wanted to leave that very moment, to go to the mess hall and eat the soup that was waiting there, then to go back to the barracks where her mother would cuddle her close to her chest on the bunk they and her brother shared with two other people and sing sweet, soothing songs in a language Neeila barely remembered but was hers all the same.

She really just wanted her mother mostly. Her mother always made everything better. She could not always take the pain away, but she would let Neeila cry if she needed too, would not yell at her for it like some other mothers would do. Sometimes her mother would even cry with her, like she could feel the pain too.

" _Alzarsi_ ," her brother hissed at her in their own language, low enough that the guard might not have heard. _Get up_ , he said with terror in his voice, like he was about to watch his baby sister get her brains blown out right in front of him. 

There had been a good chance he might have at that rate, so she got up and continued to work. She swallowed her tears for good measure, even though every swing of her arms felt as though it tore her wound further open each and every time. She did it because while Herio did not like to admit it, he already suffered from bad enough nightmares and watching her get shot or mauled or beaten to death would have probably put him off sleep for the rest of his life, and she was really looking forward to that soup later and it would have been very unfair if she died on a barren stomach. 

(And really, she just had not wanted to die at all.)

By the time she had opened her eyes again, the Warden and the boy had already approached, so close she could see how dark the lines trailing down his cheeks were. Her heart had started to pound, but she did not stop swinging, even when some other prisoners did to take in the scene unfolding. The guards did not seem interested in reprimanding so many of them at once, but Neeila took no chances. Getting hit once was more than enough times for her.

Even so, she could not help but falter when she heard the empty chains next to her jangle, before they snapped around his skinny ankles. Right next to her.

"Here you are," Neeila heard the Warden say, and watched from the corner of her eye as he handed the boy an axe that nearly dwarfed him. "Now then. Do you see what the others are doing?"

Neeila had figured the Warden was being sarcastic, for obviously the boy could not see anything at all. 

The boy had given an honest, negative shake of his head.

Neeila thought that the Warden would hit him. That was what any other guard would have done. By then Neeila knew that the correct answer was not always the _right_ answer. The boy clearly had not learned that lesson yet.

The Warden surprised her with a loud, genuine laugh.

"Oh, of course you can't, my boy. My mistake," the Warden said like a father who had forgotten his son was not yet tall enough to reach the top shelf. "Here, I shall show you then."

The Warden shifted behind him, then. He took the boy's arms, molded them into position, and together, they swung forward. They did it again and again, the Warden guiding the motions like a parent would do. Yet there was something about it that made it distinctly _not_ paternal at all. It could have been the way he held the boy, or the look in his eyes. Whatever it was, it made Neeila uncomfortable enough to look away.

Eventually, she could hear the crunch of pebbles as the Warden stood to his feet. "I trust you can manage from here. I shall see you at role call and assign you a barrack. Be good for me until then, yes?"

She peeked and saw the boy nod, not even faltering in the swing of his little arms as he did so.

"Go easy on him, boys," the Warden said to the guards, though the one that had struck Neeila had been a woman, "It's his first assignment, after all."

They all shared a laugh after that, and at the time, Neeila had not understood why it was funny.

Just as soon as he had appeared, the Warden was gone, taking some the tension Neeila had not even known she was feeling along with him. Not all of it though. After all, how could she truly relax when there was a demon with an axe right next to her? Even worse, it was the end of the line, so no one else had to stand next to him, only her. No one else had to experience the terror she was.

He was so close to her, too. He was close enough that she could hear his every exhale as his arms swung. She could even smell him—no dirt, no grime, not even a trace of old sweat. He smelled remarkably clean.

She could not remember the last time she bathed. It was supposed to be once a week with just water, and with soap every other, but when everyday was the same as the one before, it was rather fruitless to try and follow the passage of time. A more accurate schedule was whenever the guards could no longer stand their smell.

She wondered who had taken care of the boy up until then. Someone must have—babies could not take care of themselves and it would explain the soft air surrounding his little body. He did not look as though he knew the sting of sweat in your eyes, or the gnaws of hunger in your stomach. He looked like a well-kept toddler playing at prisoner.

That angered her. She spent every single one of her hours fighting to see another day and that bastard son of the universe's most ruthless tyrant looked as though he had never so much as gone to bed without a full stomach and a soft place to rest his head.

Even so, despite the boldness of her thoughts, he still terrified her. With every second that passed, her anxiety grew. She began to feel lightheaded, nauseated, completely and utterly terrif—

The tip of her axe struck a rock too hard to break. The resounding vibration felt like earthquakes on her hands, and she instinctively dropped it.

Her whole body froze, even more frigid then before. She did not move a muscle, her body wound tight as she waited for another whip to tear into her skin, because surely, she would be punished. 

Long seconds went by with no such assault. She only just realized that the guard who had been standing over her was gone, halfway down the line by then, when the boy bent down and picked up her axe. Before she could even properly react, he was already rising back up. Then, with his face still turned forward, he held it out to her.

She gaped at his outstretched arm, completely speechless.

Her brother had not been, however. Over her shoulder she heard her brother hiss, as if he were in any position to attack from his spot two spaces away from his target. 

To her astonishment the boy actually cringed despite that, and immediately let go of the axe. She darted out quickly and grabbed a hold of it before it could clamber to the ground again. The boy did not even seem to notice, too busy hacking away at his rocks once more. Neeila could not be sure if it were all in her head or not, but the boy seems far tenser than he had a moment ago.

Her brother reached over and nudged her with his elbow. "Work," he said.

She did, willing her arms to recapture the rhythm she had before. At that point though, her curiosity had been peaked. Why had the boy done that, she wondered? Why would a monster risk punishment just to help her? 

She had thought long and hard over her questions but try as she might she could not figure out the answers. She started to watch him then from the corner of her eyes, as if maybe the answers she sought would be written there on his little face.

They were not. She noticed, though, that he was just as small up close as he was afar. The top of his head barely reached her shoulder and Neeila was not a tall girl. She noticed a lot of things, in fact. From that close she could see that the two dark lines that trailed from underneath the blindfold to underneath his chin were both too perfectly straight to be scars. She could see that his skin was nearly pale enough to be white, but still warmed enough by the shades of ivory to look more like flesh than the skin of a monster.

His hair though, remained an anomaly, and if at all possible, was even darker from this view. The spiky strands were swept over to the right side of his face and pointed more downwards than up. One strand rested down the center of his forehead, the ends splitting into two points, brushing gently against his blindfold with every move of his body. His hair was not dirty and scraggly like hers. Every strand looked soft to the touch.

She blinked and had felt abruptly embarrassed by her observations. Even so, she could not deny that he was a cute little thing. Adorable, even, in the way all babies were, before they inevitably started to look weathered and beat down like her.

She wondered how long the boy had until he reached that point.

She was not the only one taking him in, it seemed. Some ignored him, but others did not. Several pair of eyes darted over towards him, and none of them were friendly. The looks were probably as far from friendly as they could get. They looked like they wanted to stop piercing their axes into the rocks and into the boy's head instead. 

Neeila had thought that the looks were very scary, and she was not even on the receiving end. 

There was no way the boy could see the looks with the blindfold covering his eyes, but he still drew within himself as if he had, like he believed that simply making himself smaller would make him disappear altogether.

It all confused Neeila even more. This frightened, small, pathetic boy was supposed to be the spawn of the demon who murdered millions, she thought, yet simple glares had him nearly shaking in his boots. None of it made any sense.

One thing was clear—he was not at all what she expected him to be. She felt... disappointed? She did not know if that was the right word to describe how she had felt then. She ought to have been pleased that he was not so terrible as she had thought, but rather she felt a bit annoyed that she had wasted so much energy being scared in the first place.

The evaporating fear had made room for rational thought to return. It would have been very rude of her to ignore his efforts, she had thought. Living on Tene'mareen had swiftly taught her the true meaning of gratitude. Be grateful for the pieces of meat that found its way into your broth. Be grateful every time you are assigned anywhere but the mines and the graveyard. Be grateful for every morning you live to see.

Be grateful for assistance, even from a monster.

She took a deep breath, and willed steel to replace the areas within her still plagued with fear. She would be fine, she told herself. She would be fine; she would be fine... 

She leaned towards him and whispered lowly, "Thank you."

All of his muscles stiffened. He said nothing.

"For picking up my axe," she clarified, in case he had not understood what she meant. "I'd be in a lot of trouble right now if they had noticed, so thank you."

After a long moment, he mumbled, "Welcome."

His voice was soft, like a toddler's. It had surprised her, despite acknowledging that he was, in fact, the size of one. Surely a monster would have a scarier voice than that, even a little one like him.

The conversation, such as it was, could have ended there. She could not really say why she did not let it.

"Your name is Chill," she said, and it was only after the words left her mouth did she realize how stupid they were. Of course he knew what his own name was. She doubted he would actually call her an idiot, but she was certain he was thinking it.

Or maybe he was not thinking something so harsh, because all he did was nod stiffly.

In an effort to recover from her idiotic question, she asked one with more substance. "So, you're old enough to work out here now?"

Another rigid nod.

"Do you know how old you are, then?" She asked, trying not to sound too eager. She had really wanted to know the answer. After all, if she knew how old he was, she might have been able to guess how old _she_ was.

She did not know why it mattered to her, because really, it didn't at all, but she wanted to know.

Unfortunately, the boy did not know. Or at least, that was what she had surmised from the furious shaking of his head and the overt trembling of his body. "I... I... I don't—"

"Alright, alright, it's not that big of a deal," she lied. She looked quickly down the line, but no guards seemed to have noticed. 

Her brother had, though, and he leaned around her once more to give the boy a piercing glare. She wanted to roll her eyes because the boy was blinded; what exactly was Herio trying to accomplish?

She elbowed Herio, who grunted and gave her a sharp gaze of her own. She returned it obstinately, and after a moment, Herio conceded and returned to his work.

"So," she started again, and tried not to feel guilty at the way the boy tensed up again. "I bet you did all kinds of easy work in there, huh?"

She belatedly realized he could be offended by her words. Her mother told her that, no matter how right they probably were, assumptions were rude to make. It was not as if she could take back words that had already left her mouth, though.

She waited a long while for a response. It became apparent that one would not be coming.

Annoyed, she finally broke. “Are you gonna answer me, or what?”

He jumped, and the axe in his hands wavered so badly it was a wonder he had not dropped it all together. “I s-sorry. I-I not know... you want-wan-wanted me t-to answer.”

She had not called him out on his rather atrocious grammar—it was normal for toddlers to talk weird, right?—and instead focused on the content of the sentence. “Why wouldn’t I want you to answer? I asked you a question.”

She watched the way his brow quirked, like he was mentally picking apart her words letter by letter and still not comprehending.

She huffed. “Okay, I didn’t word it like a question, but I’m pretty sure the way I said it made it sound like a question.”

He, again, did not reply.

“So, are you going to answer, or...?”

For long moments he did not, then, “I he-helped with di-i-shes. I helped with la- _laun_ -laundry. I helped clean guardses rooms.”

“So easy stuff,” she said.

Predictably, he said nothing.

“I bet it’s not so hot in there, huh?” She looked at him, then amended, “That was a question.”

“It-it’s—” he cut himself off. Then, “Why you want for me to answer?”

She blinked. “Why would I ask a question if I didn’t want you to answer?”

“No, no—" he shook his head, frustrated. “—why you talking t-to me?”

She asked genuinely, "Am I not allowed to?" It had not dawned on her that she could be punished for associating with him. Her eyes darted to the guards again, feeling very uneasy.

“I’m bad,” he said simply, like that was supposed to mean something. She supposed it would, for someone like him.

"But is there a rule against talking to you?" she pressed.

He hesitated, then answered in a voice that sounded almost reluctant, "Don't know."

“Well you're not being bad now. You’re doing everything everyone else is doing, so talk."

“Don’t wanna...”

Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t _want to_?”

He cringed, but plowed on, “Don’t wanna be in trouble...”

“Fine,” she huffed, feeling very annoyed and unable to explain why. She took out her feelings on the rocks before her, hacking with the axe with even more strength. It had not been a smart move. There were blisters already forming on her hands and the day was not even half over yet. Exhaustion had long since begun to take over her muscles. She should have been conserving all the energy she could have, but she was a little girl with hurt little feelings, and every lesson that she had ever been taught flew from her mind.

Not that it would have mattered. She had abruptly begun to sway on her feet, and it was then that she realized that blood was still pouring from the wound on her back.

“Oh no,” she could not help but to say. Herio looked over, and she saw her own thoughts written all over his face. Tears filled her eyes and fell down her face. Bleeding this badly, she would not make it to the end of the day.

She had not felt the numb acceptance that others described when faced with her own death. She had not felt acceptance at all. She was scared. She did not want to die. She did not want to—

She felt a touch on her shoulder. She would have jumped away, but even just the thought of moving the barbells her feet had become made her almost want to pass out. It was Chill, she could see out the corner of her eye. His face was turned away, but his arm was outstretched, his hand crawling purposefully across her back. When his fingers brushed her wound, she hissed. He did not pull away, though. Rather, he spread his hand out over it, covering as much as his little palm would allow.

“Ow, stop—” she bit down on her lip before more could spill out, flinching as far away as she could. He was not deterred, however, keeping his hand pressed firmly against her. Then, somehow, she felt her skin moving, pulling together, and it _hurt_ and—

He pulled away.

She immediately reached her hand back. “What did you do?” she demanded, as her fingers found the spot. It still hurt, but it was... closed? Not quite healed, more like he had stitched it together with nothing but his touch.

"Don't know... h-how long... can... hold," he said, his voice sounding beyond strained. "Try... until... we done. You get... f-fi-fixed then."

He stopped talking then, and Neeila had no idea what to say. She had never known that the spawn of Frieza had such a power. She could not believe that he was using it on her.

In the end, he could not hold her skin together for long. He only lasted about an hour, before whatever connection he had maintained suddenly snapped. He nearly collapsed when that happened, and it was only her hand around his arm that kept him on his feet.

The last thing he said to her that day had been an apology, for being unable to hold the connection for longer. She told him that it was fine, and it truly was. He had held it together long enough that the gushing stream had lessened to a slow trickle.

It was hard to tell from the blankness of his face, but he seemed pleased at that. He nodded at her a final time, before returning to his work. He did not look back at her once after that.

For that whole hour, she rolled the situation around in her head, but she still could not make sense of it. That was the second time in one meeting that he had helped her. That time at the expense of his own health, it seemed.

She had thought a lot of things that day. She thought, how did the son of a murderous tyrant become so quiet, so timid, so mindful? She thought, how could so many people look at him and feel fear and the hatred that comes from fear? She thought, what would people think if they bothered to try and understand more about him than who his father was?

She thought, how could this boy bear the weight of a monster’s sins, and not feel so terribly alone?

He couldn’t. No one could.

She did not think, but rather knew in that moment that the boy had done those things for her because he wanted her to like him. He would not say it, he would not ask for it, he might not have even known it himself, but she knew.

She thought, _what if I bothered to try and understand_?

She said, quietly, "My name is Neeila. Don’t forget it."

She had only caught a glimpse so she would never truly know, but she thought that the twitch at the corner of his lip might have been a smile.

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

There was still a scar on her shoulder from that day.

She had never seen the whole of it, only the very end of it was ever in her sight when she strained her head back, but Herio insisted that it was ugly. While Herio, the very mature older brother that he was, seemed to be under the impression that _every_ part of her was ugly, she was sure that he was telling the truth about the scar. After all, while she could not see it, she could touch it. The skin was thick and fibrous underneath her fingers, bumpy where her mother later threaded the stitches, and smooth almost everywhere else.

The scar no longer hurt, but the skin was still tight even after so long. She could feel it tug underneath Chill’s weight as his body shifted ever so slightly with every step she took. She could feel the heaviness of his head while he slept on her. He fell asleep nearly the exact moment he had laid his head down and had not so much as stirred since. 

The Chill of now was nothing at all like the little boy she had met that day. His chubby cheeks and the radiant sheen of his hair had not lasted long under the full force of the Tene'mareen workload. He was all scars and sunken skin like the rest of them now.

She stumbled for the umpteenth time and paused to regain her bearings. Chill weighed next to nothing, but so did she. He was nearly a head smaller than her, but her height did not give her any real advantages in strength. Despite her bravado, he had started to grow heavy very quickly. Her skinny arms were steadily pushing into numbness territory by now. She had stumbled more than once during the journey.

And a journey it was. She had found Chill sprawled out just by the steps of the grand building—a very far distance from the Northwest Cliff. Even so, she did not complain. She trudged past the grand building. She trudged past the cafeteria where they ate. She trudged with the mine entrances in the distance.

She trudged past the very pit she and Chill had met each other in. By now, it had long since been cleared, the stone giving way to a patch of imported soil, filled with tall stalks of cereal grains. Division I was responsible for supplying the entire planet with food, but every Division had caches of food stocks as extra precautions. She liked being assigned there the best. The paranoia was nearly nauseating, but was worth it for all the grains she was able to sneak away. Chill was always too frightened to even try, so she always made sure to sneak some away for him too.

Any attempted gentleness of her walking did not seem to affect him one way or the other—she firmly believed that nothing short of a miracle would wake the boy at this point—so she quickly decided not to bother, dragging herself along like a cane-less old man. She did not care. It was not like there was anyone to see her.

(Neeila wondered how, with every guard off drinking themself into a stupor, Chill could begrudge her for feeling optimistic about the plan for escape.)

She trudged and trudged until she reached the entrance of the barrack camp and did not stop. It was not so quiet here. In fact, there were plenty of prisoners out. It was not an abnormal sight, the workday had ended after all, but usually they were not so loud. She supposed things like reasonable volume went out the window when there were no guards around to punish you for it.

Many of their eyes fell on her as she walked by. She held no illusions that she was truly pretty, but underneath the emaciation and scars it was clear she might have been, and thus many of the stares on her face were appreciative. Some were simply curious, for surely, she made quite a spectacle stumbling under the weight of a boy not much smaller than her. When recognition took hold, every one of the looks darkened.

She ignored them all. She had gotten rather good at that over the years.

She trudged on and on, until even the barracks were behind her. She went all the way back to until the electric fence enclosing the Division would let her go no further. The walls of the Northwest Cliff were left from this spot, and so left she went. There was no one to hide from, so she did not bother to crouch into the shadows. She was sure that if she had to go to the ground in that moment, she would probably never get up again.

She just reached the wall when she felt him stir. She had honestly expected him to sleep for longer, and it probably would have been better for him if he had. Still, with him awake, he could now actually hold on as she climbed. Carrying a boy nearly her size and unconscious up an already dangerous cliff sounds like a well enough way to kill them both, and that would naturally be unsatisfactory. Neeila did not have "meet an untimely death" on her itinerary for the day.

He was exhausted, still barely free from the clutches of sleep when she said, “Hold on to me so we don’t fall to our doom.”

His body stiffened at her words, and she remembered that Chill usually found her death jokes to be particularly unfunny. She felt him start to pull away.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she admonished, leaning forward so his exhausted body had no choice but to fall back down onto hers. “Don’t even try it. Just think about me putting you down right now, and the way you would crumble like a sack of potatoes. Got that image in your head? Good, now imagine you climbing this cliff. How well do you think you'll manage that?"

His answer was sulky silence.

"That's what I thought. I’m carrying you up this cliff and that’s that. You’re welcome to try and fight me and ensure we both die, or you could just hold on like a good boy and increase our chances of survival to ‘slightly more likely’.”

 _We are going to die_ , she practically heard him say. Very reluctantly, his legs curled around her abdomen, his ankles hooked together, and his arms tightened until she was nearly choking.

“You know, I heard on some planets, people do this for sport? Climb cliffs for fun, that is, like you,” she said as she started to climb, trying very hard to ignore the way her arms shook, and the undeniable fear in her heart. “I can’t imagine why. This is probably the most terrible activity ever. I mean, don’t get me wrong—apparently, we Mangelins were very good climbers. I was told it was usually trees with leafy branches to grab onto or with ropes when they didn’t. We might even tackle a particularly tall hill. But a cliff? Absolutely not. Perish the thought, I say to that.”

He very much so wanted her to stop talking, and after her left foot nearly slipped, sending a shower of pebbles to the ground countless yards below, she decided to for once just do as was desired of her. Luckily when she looked up, she saw that the closest ledge was only a dozen or so feet ahead.

When she was a child, she used to think that she and the others who were dared to climb this were being so clever and rebellious. In actuality, the guards were not at all threatened. The sentry towers were taller than the ledge, and any higher the rocks were essentially unclimbable. Some species were able to reach the top, but apparently, all that was on the other side was a sea of hot, bubbling acid.

Not that it would matter if the other side could be crossed. All they would find was another division, and if not that, then a village or city or whatever the hell Tena civilians lived in, and both were just as unwelcoming.

The entire planet was a prison. As long as her feet stood on Tene'mareen soil, she would never know freedom.

As it were, all she could see from here was the sky, and it looked as it always did. The blockade of clouds was thick and dark, colored like the flesh of a blood orange. One part glowed from the outline of something gold—maybe another planet, maybe the sun, maybe she would never know.

She would like to know, at least, if somewhere past the barrier of smog, did the stars still exist.

She had forgotten so much, but she remembered enough to feel longing. She remembered only praying at night, because it was then that Goddess heard their voices best. She remembered burying her grandfather, then her grandmother after the sun had set, because only the light of the stars would lead them back to Goddess's arms. She remembered being that person so long ago, that child who only had the sky and stars and Goddess above her and nothing else.

She would give a whole lot, she thought, if she could only see the stars one last time.

The stone beneath her hand crumbled and fell away, nearly taking her whole body with it. Fear made her cling to the wall for a long while after that. Chill, likewise, tightened his hold around her until she was sure she would never breathe right again. 

If it had been Herio she had nearly just gotten killed, her ears would already be ringing from the sound of his incessant yelling. It was Chill though, and he said nothing about the undeniable terror she just put him through. 

Not that she had expected him to. She had not heard Chill's voice in a long, long time. 

Chill had never seen stars before. She wondered what Chill's face would look like if he could see them, just one time with her. She would give a whole lot, she thought, to see what the red of his eyes would look like with the light of her sky inside of them.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know many people dislike OC point of views, so thank you for bearing with me. 
> 
> Funnily enough, despite creating her, Neeila's perspective was actually pretty challenging to write. Usually when I'm writing on Tene'mareen, it's from Chill's point of view, who is blind. Neeila's thoughts were mainly so hard because I kept forgetting that she could see things lol.


	16. The Damned

Chapter Fifteen: _The Damned_

"Do you want something specific, or just anything?" Goku asked Vegeta with his head buried thoughtfully in the refrigerator.

Vegeta made grunting sound, similar to the one from before as a reply from his place at the table, which Goku figured roughly translated to: ‘Just anything is fine.’

Goku’s stomach was very close to audibly growling, but they barely had enough food for the round-trip, so he reluctantly kept it simple. He pulled out several squares of cheese and packaged meat, topping off the meal with some loaves of bread, fruit cups, and a few cans of soda. 

He managed not to drop anything on his journey back towards the table, doing his best not to shake the sodas as he struggled to set them down one by one. When his arms were empty, he quickly plopped down into a chair. He eagerly grabbed the closest packet and tore it open, more than ready to bury his face in a meal long overdue.

He was so lost in his black forest ham sandwich that he almost forgot Vegeta was there. The other man was just as quiet as always, slowly funneling food into his rather reluctant-looking mouth. Vegeta’s thoughts probably couldn’t get any farther away from his food than they were right now.

At least he did not seem as far gone as he was earlier. His eyes were still unnervingly blank, but there was a tension about him now. He was very tense in fact, now that Goku noticed. He could see the muscles in Vegeta’s jaw clench hard around each bite, and his dark brows narrow deeply. Whatever Vegeta was thinking, it must be very unpleasant, as Goku could distantly hear the creak of the metal fork bending under the weight of his grip.

He was about to intervene—no utensil deserved that kind of treatment—but Vegeta beats him to it. “How have you been since your return to Earth?”

He blinked a few times, mulling over the words in his head, trying to reimagine them coming from Vegeta’s mouth again. That was definitely his voice, and Goku literally just watched his mouth move so he had undoubtedly said it...

“What?” was Goku's response.

Vegeta looked annoyed, like _Goku_ was the one acting strangely right now. “It has been almost five months since your return. How have you been?”

The question made even less sense the second time around. After all, there was no way Vegeta actually _cared_ , so why would he ask?

Perhaps Goku was thinking too deeply about it. In all likelihood, Vegeta had asked because he was not immune to awkward silences, either. Well, Goku supposed he could talk then. It beat watching Vegeta stress himself out and assault dishware, he supposed.

“I’ve been alright since I came home, I guess.” The response sounded unsatisfactory even to his own ears. Goku figured by the way Vegeta quirked his brow, he agreed.

He paused to chew on a hunk of cheddar cheese, before going on, “Things are pretty different now, obviously. It especially amazes me to see how Gohan turned out. The last time I saw him he didn’t even reach my chest and now he’s taller than me!” That had been a rather difficult thing to get used too. “He slacked off but he’s still an amazing fighter, and a great older brother. I’ve never been prouder of him.”

Goku was just about positive that Vegeta did not care even a little bit about the state of his household, yet the other saiyan continued to sit in silence, clearly waiting for more. Regardless, Goku said nothing. He... was not quite sure what to say about the other two members of his family.

Vegeta would not be deterred, it seemed, and asked, “What of your younger brat?”

“Ah, well...” Goku rubbed the back of his head, looking around at the metal walls and floor, anywhere aside from the eyes right in front of his. “He’s... okay.”

Goku groaned loudly inside his own head, not even bothering to look at the unimpressed look Vegeta was undoubtedly giving him. Perhaps one day he’ll be able to lie convincingly. Or least fib. That day was not today.

“Goten’s just not really...” he thought on the right word to use and settled with: “comfortable.”

“Comfortable,” Vegeta repeated.

Goku nodded. “Around me. Not yet. I don’t expect him to be, obviously. He doesn’t really know me.”

Vegeta furrowed his brows. “Five months is not enough time for him to get to know you?”

“Well, I mean, when compared to seven years, five months isn’t that long, you know?”

Vegeta just looked at him.

Goku heaved a sigh. “It’s not like he dislikes me. Or at least I don’t think he does. It’s just kind of... awkward being around him. He’s different from Gohan. When Gohan was his age he always wanted to spend time with me. Goten doesn’t seem to like being around me at all, anymore.”

Goku’s eyes widened just as he finished the sentence. He had not quite meant to say those exact words out loud. 

His face abruptly grew hot with something that was probably self-consciousness. He focused back on his meal, stuffing the rest of his flavorful ham and cheddar cheese sandwich into his face, regretting ever even opening his mouth.

If Vegeta cared at all about his discomfort, he did not show it. Instead, he bluntly asked, “What of your woman?”

_Just go straight for the kill, why don’t ya?_

“She’s okay,” Goku said, far too quickly. As he shoveled more food in his mouth, he made the mistake of peering up, and catching two raised eyebrows.

Goku was really starting to not like those eyebrows.

Goku slowly swallowed his mouthful. Then he cracked open the closest can of soda. He sipped it and tasted a tingly orange flavor.

He was stalling.

Goku coughed a bit, set down his can, and said, "She's just a bit more... agrumental?”

“Argumentative,” Vegeta corrected, the usual annoyance he would express toward Goku's intellectual shortcomings surprisingly absent. 

“Yes. That.”

Vegeta leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you not always argue? That’s all I've ever seen, anyway.”

 _Yeah, like you’re one to talk about arguing couples,_ Goku thought, but he knew Vegeta did not mean it that way, so he kept it to himself.

“Well, we do, I mean did. I just mean that it’s... different now. She’s different.”

Vegeta said nothing. Goku continued, “She’s just more... upset these days. In the beginning, when I first came back, she was hardly ever angry. Now though, she just isn’t... she just isn’t happy.” 

It shocked Goku how much that hurt to say out loud.

“I understand, or at least, I think I understand,” he went on. “I know that the past seven years were a lot longer for her than they were for me, and that it must not have been easy for her. I get that I really do, I just... I just wish she understood how hard I’m trying.”

Later, Goku will marvel at how surreal it was to be telling Vegeta any of this. At the moment, he simply carried on, saying any word that wished to be made known, uncaring of whether or not they should stay inside his head.

“I mean, when I say that the past seven years weren’t long for me, I mean it wasn’t long at all. Time works differently when you’re dead. Maybe you already know what I mean—or maybe not since you were never dead as long as I was—but in Otherworld, time... doesn’t exist at all really. King Kai told me it’s different in Hell, but in Heaven, it’s a part of paradise. You can’t miss the people you care about if you don’t even realize how long it’s been since you’ve last seen them. Then, before you know it, they’re dead and in heaven with you. So, I knew it had been seven years, but I didn’t _really_ know, you know?”

Goku thought that probably nothing he said made much sense, but Vegeta hummed and nodded his head anyway. 

“When I came back to life, I didn’t—I guess I wasn’t really prepared for what seven years would mean.” Goku admitted. “Goten was the biggest surprise, obviously, but it’s not even just him. Everything is different, even the littlest of things. Like, how now every Sunday night Chi-Chi and the boys watch a movie together and she got mad because I wasn’t there. Or like the other day I stepped on a Lego toy and broke it and it didn’t even dawn on me that one would be there because Gohan never played with toys like that but apparently my other son _does_. Chi-Chi was even mad at me for leaving my towel on the bathroom floor. How was I supposed to know I’m not allowed to do that anymore? I was dead for seven years!”

Goku knew he must sound so ridiculous ranting over pointless things like this. He kept going though, because he was upset, and someone, anyone else had to _know_.

“I’m trying! I really, really am! I just don’t know what else to do! She used to always be angry at me, but in a—in a _nice_ way. I liked it sometimes, the way she would get angry sometimes. This isn’t like how she used to be at all. Everything is different and it’s been months and I’m still trying to get used to it, but it’s like she doesn’t _want_ me to get used to it,” Goku trailed off a bit as he looked down at his lap, like a sail slowly losing its wind.

“You know, when I told her I was going into space with you, she didn’t even yell,” Goku said, laughing half-heartedly. “She was angry, though. She asked why I would put Gohan and Goten through 'that’ again. She never did tell me how she felt about me leaving. I didn’t even get a chance to tell her it would only be for a few days, but I don’t even think it would have mattered. She probably thinks I’m leaving and never coming back, and it doesn’t make a difference to her—”

He cut himself off, biting his tongue so hard he nearly tasted blood. He dropped his head down into his hands, his fingers threading through the spikes of his hair with no amount of gentleness or finesse, and took a deep, long breath. 

The air coming in had to fight for space inside a chest that was filled tight, stuffed to the brim with a feeling he could only describe as ugly. That was what it was—ugly and unnatural and unwanted. Goku didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t like it at all because it was so very much not _him_. He did not feel emotions like these, did not think the kind of thoughts that made his head buzz like a hornet’s nest. It was not right, and he had to make it stop.

It took another deep breath for the feeling to lessen back into something more manageable. He did not look up from his hands though, because in place of the ugly feeling was the inklings of embarrassment. 

It was almost just a foreign as the ugly feeling in all honesty; Goku couldn’t remember the last time he had ever felt embarrassment. He knew some things _should_ make him feel embarrassed, like being naked around others or belching in public, because other people tend to feel uncomfortable in those situations. He didn’t though, couldn’t even really understand why other people were bothered by those things. He was embarrassed now, though; even he was aware that it was rather ridiculous to have a breakdown over something so trivial.

Time passed by in complete silence, with not even the sound of the other man’s chewing to lessen the awkwardness of the atmosphere. Each second felt longer than the last, and now something like anxiousness was overtaking Goku, and the only thing he could do was let his mouth fly with the question he had been dying to ask.

He looked up but didn’t register whatever look was on Vegeta’s face, only let his mouth say, “Why are you acting that way?”

Vegeta’s eyes widen just slightly, undoubtedly caught off guard. Then, they narrow almost dangerously. “Acting how?”

“Like you don’t care about your son.”

Goku was not a complete idiot. He could gauge another person’s mood, could even read the atmosphere of a room sometimes. He knew that that was the kind of question that one shouldn’t ask in this kind of situation. He knew that that was the kind of question that could start a fight. The part of him that wanted to be Vegeta's friend thought it was probably necessary, though. An uglier part of him thought it was better to get Vegeta angry than to have him harassing him about his home life.

Never mind the gravity of the question, never mind the obvious jab, none of it had an effect. Vegeta’s face betrayed nothing, wearing the same eerie expression it had all day and night.

“I don’t need the emotions I’m feeling right now,” Vegeta said. “I’m containing them until the time has come for me to use them.”

Goku was taken a bit aback by the honesty of his answer. He quickly gathered himself and said, “That doesn’t really sound good.” He thought back on a mental health expert talk show Chi-Chi used to make him watch with her. Most times he fell asleep, but sometimes the words managed to stick. “‘Emotions shouldn't be pushed down. It's better to allow yourself to feel what you're feeling. Otherwise, they will boil over and show themselves later, with worse consequences.’”

Goku knew better than to finish with, ‘ _if you hide your emotions, it makes you afraid of facing them._ ’

Vegeta said, “'In reality, emotions are useful for working out what we need to change.'”

Goku barely had time to process the fact that Bulma made Vegeta watch daytime television with her too when he continued with, “If I show how angry I am now, I’ll end up killing us both."

At first, Goku was confused and a bit exasperated by the melodramatics. Then he remembered the small, tortured, broken boy that was waiting for them. He also remembered the metal, but still very fragile walls around them. Suddenly the tiny kitchenette felt like a coffin.

“Oh."

“Emotions only cloud judgment. You know that, just like any other warrior. My rage will have its time.” Vegeta took a long sip of his otherwise untouched soda. “You, on the other hand, don't seem all that interested in taking your own advice.”

Goku's response was to blink several shocked blinks. Vegeta was throwing his own advice back at him, which was almost like Vegeta himself giving him advice? This truly was a bizarre day.

“We should get some sleep,” Goku said abruptly, if only because he can’t think of anything else to say. “It kind of defeats the purpose of this trip if we fall asleep as soon as we get there.” 

The minute the words leave his mouth, he felt how true they were. Fatigue set in like it was simply waiting to be invited in, taking over his body so quickly his vision actually blurred for a moment. He noticed for the first time too just how dark the bags underneath Vegeta’s eyes were, twin smudges so obvious he had no idea how he hadn't noticed before.

In fact, everything about Vegeta just screamed _exhausted_. Goku meant it with the utmost care of a concerned friend when he decided that Vegeta looked a real mess. Goku slept under a tree last night and yet he was positive he had had a better sleep than Vegeta did.

Vegeta frowned at him and glares rather darkly. Vegeta did not disagree but had just as equally _not_ agreed. Even so, if his expression was anything to go by, he was probably leaning more towards the former.

Goku did not think any deeper about it. He was far too tired to try a task as insurmountable as figuring out what was going through Vegeta’s head. In fact, he had nearly made it out of the kitchenette and towards the twin futons when he realized Vegeta was still sitting at the table.

“Are you coming?” Goku asked.

“I’ve no interest in _sleeping_ ,” Vegeta said, spitting out the word like it was a particularly foul-tasting morsel.

“Why?” Goku asked. He was genuinely curious, but he knew that the odds of him actually getting a straight answer were just about slim to none. If anything, he would probably receive a remark so scathing he will be left wondering for the rest of the night whether Vegeta ever liked him even a little.

Vegeta glowered at him, then looked sharply away, his entire face turned towards the far wall. Goku did not know about the nightmares Vegeta saw every time he closed his eyes. He did not know about the decade old mantra Vegeta heard in his ears when there was no other sound to fill them.

Goku _did_ , however, know a surefire way to put even the most stubborn of people (namely little boys) to sleep.

“Did Bulma ever tell you how we met?”

Vegeta blinked at him, and said in a voice that did not sound particularly impressed, “No."

“Really?” Goku said, moving towards the futons once more. “She was my first friend, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why you think I care.”

“You’re not even a little bit curious?” Goku said as he pulled off his shirt and kicked off his boots. “Bulma and I used to be so close! She even gave me a bath once.”

Silence. Then, “What.”

Goku settled onto the futon. “Yup.”

When his eyes opened, he saw the gold tips of Vegeta’s boots very close to his face. He tilted up his head and saw Vegeta giving him a somewhat concerning kind of look. “Why did she give you a bath?”

Goku yawned loudly, and it was only a little bit fake. “I’ll have to start from the beginning, otherwise you won’t believe me if I say it isn’t as bad as it sounds. In fact, the tale is quite nice. I’ll try not to get too emotional as I tell it,” Goku joked.

Vegeta's brow twitched irritably. He still gave Goku an expectant look.

“Alright, well, it starts when Bulma tried to kill me with her car.”

Vegeta plopped down on his own futon, arms and legs both crossed, and listened.

* * *

Neeila somehow managed to make it up the cliff. Chill thought that maybe if he were not still riding the waves of terror, he would be impressed with her feat.

(Distantly, in the recesses of his mind that he did not have the energy to allow his thoughts to touch, he was impressed with his own body. So ready to die, and yet somehow still managing to fear death, it seemed.)

“See,” she said when her feet were firmly on the ledge. “I told you I’d make it up, didn’t I?”

He conceded defeat, and as an act of goodwill, did not mention the fact that her words were barely comprehensible from how hard she was panting, and that her body was sweaty enough that they could probably refill their empty water container to the brim with it.

He did not really have a chance to mention much of anything, really. After all, the cliff was only ten or so yards long; it did not take long for whomever else was occupying it to notice their arrival. The minute Neeila’s mouth closed he could hear the sound of one of his not favorite voices.

“Neeila!”

Chill had, of course, never actually seen Neeila’s brother. He had, however, heard others call Herio a “pretty boy”—a rather odd insult in Chill’s opinion—on more than one occasion, so he figured it must be true. With that in mind, he naturally decided that Herio must look a lot like Neeila (who, in fact, had also been referred to with similar terms, though usually in a more endearing fashion) which Chill supposed was likely with blood siblings. In his mind he imagined piercing green eyes, with sclera that was properly white because he would not be shedding tears. He pictured pale skin and glitter birth marks on a face that might be more angular. Blond hair as well, not long like Neeila’s but cut short, as was customary among most males in most species. And taller, too—that was also customary among males.

Of course, all of that was speculation. He knew for certain the sound of Herio’s voice, though. Herio had become something of a frequent presence over the years. Neeila never actively tried to force them together, but it was a simple fact that wherever Neeila went, Herio was usually not far behind, and vice versa. They had become so used to each other that they had fallen into something of an unspoken truce. Most days.

Now, Herio’s voice sounded delighted, and Chill could tell the tone came from the smile that was no doubt on his face at the sight of his beloved little sister.

Then, Herio’s feet skid to a crunchy halt. Chill imagined his whole body freezing, taking in just who exactly was draping over his sister’s shoulders. He imagined Herio’s face darkening and figured that today must not be a “truce day”.

“Stop!” Neeila exclaimed, despite her chest still heaving for air. She shifted underneath him as she took a clumsy step back. She also stuck her hand out for good measure, because surely her five bony fingers were all the defense needed against the entirety of Herio’s body. “Just—just don’t start.”

“Don’t _start_?” Herio parroted back, incredulous and enraged. “No, you put him down _now_.”

She was already sliding Chill off her back, so of course she felt the need to add, “I was doing that anyway because I’m tired. It’ll be a cold day in _III_ before I let _you_ order me around.”

When Chill's knees are on the ground, she helped him to move closer to the wall, maneuvering him so he could relax propped on his shoulder. All the while, Herio raved in the background. “Yeah, I bet you’re tired, after risking your _death_ carrying him of all people up here! What were you thinking?”

She huffed. “And yet I didn’t die, and I was thinking that I’m nearly an adult who knows her own limits and can make decisions for _herself_.”

“Hmph, adult my ass,” he scoffed. He continued with a sneer, “What did you even bring _him_ here for?” There was an emphasis on the ‘him’, as if Herio were being particularly generous with that pronoun.

“I brought him because he is my friend,” Neeila said, and Chill already knew that she felt that way, so there was absolutely no reason why hearing her say the word should have made his heart squeeze pleasantly in his chest, but it did. “You already know that. Stop asking ridiculous questions, especially when you already know you won’t like the answers.”

Herio bristled, probably gearing up to, once again, voice his opinion on _that_.

Before he had the chance, Neeila forged on, the pride from earlier seeping shamelessly back into her tone, “And I _am_ almost an adult. I found out today that I am sixteen years of age.”

Herio was... quiet. He seemed not to know what to say to that.

“That means you must be eighteen or nineteen,” she added, helpfully.

“Only you would care about something stupid like that,” he said, but the awkward tone of his voice rather nullified the heat his words.

Chill could feel Neeila open her mouth to make an indignant retort anyway, so he quickly shifted his hand over to squeeze her wrist before she could speak. _Just let it go._

Miraculously, she did, though making sure to huff loudly, as if to reiterate that she had won the argument.

Chill did not like when Neeila fought with her brother. They bickered a lot, which he had learned was typical between siblings, and was often actually done out of love for one another, oddly enough. Whenever their disagreements were serious, however, it was usually because of him.

Chill did not have a family. He did not know what it was like to love someone simply because they happened to share his blood, a bond forged together by forces they did not control but valued above all else. He had always been intrigued by the “family dynamic”, but he had never craved it, not as fiercely as he craved other things his life left him without. “Families” just seemed like the kind of bonds that were too complex for him to understand. All he had was Neeila, and that was enough for him.

Neeila had more though. She no longer had a mother, but she did still have a brother who loved her more than the breath in his own lungs, and Chill did not like being the thing that came between that.

Despite his thoughts, it was Chill who had Neeila's attention in the very next moment. Her eyes watched as he swayed unsteadily against his precarious perch against the wall. Chill was just a bit out of it, and so did not entirely notice Neeila scooting back next to him and pulling his head down onto her shoulder, though once it was there, he did not move it away. He curled into her—so far gone he couldn’t even remember why he shouldn’t—soaking in the welcoming softness of her hair and the warmth of her skin.

Herio seemed to remember. His voice sounding both exasperated and weary, he said, “ _Neeila_.”

“What?”

“Do you have to do that?”

“What’s it to you if I do?”

Of course, at that exact moment, Chill’s body chose to start coughing, the force of it impressively violent, not unlike an elderly man who had indulged in a few too many smokes in his youth.

“You see! There’s a reason people don’t sleep with their mongrels.” Herio sneered. “They make you sick.”

“Yes, well, when I start projectile vomiting, I’ll be sure to aim for your face,” she said absently, the reply seemingly preprogrammed in her head (which, given how much the siblings argued, it might actually have been). Her attention, however, seems to be preoccupied with pounding her fist firmly against Chill’s chest. A shame, really, because Chill knows she would have greatly enjoyed the scandalized look that was no doubt on her brother’s face.

“Better?” she asked him. “Is this helping or just making it worse? I can’t hit your back, but maybe you could lift your arms? Hey, Herio, do you know if that actually makes a difference? I remember Mom always told us to do it, but I could never tell if it actually—oh.”

Chill wondered what could have possibly brought an end to what was only just the beginning of her usual vomit of words, until he felt the wetness of blood trailing from his lips and down onto his hands in warm droplets.

That was probably not good.

Neeila said nothing else about it, instead finishing her ramble about whatever the hell she had been talking about before, her words washing over his head as it nearly spun on its axis, and righted itself again before she even stopped to take a breath. Even so, despite the rapidness of her spiel, even she did not seem to be focused on what she was saying. No, she seemed more focused on the droplets of blood still dotting across his mouth.

She probably thought he was going to die.

Chill was still more or less indifferent, but regardless, he straightened up as much as he could manage, and fought against the second spin that would surely send him spiraling into unconsciousness if he let it. He did it, because even though Chill was still not entirely against the possibility, he would rather not die before Neeila’s eyes, right in her arms no less.

Even he could see how that would be a very unfortunate thing to put her through.

“Hey, boy,” was what finally cut off Neeila’s gaggle of words. The siblings, in unison, turn towards the voice. Chill was none the wiser, but to seeing eyes was a man—short and old, with a conventionally sunken frame, and white strands of straggled hair poking from an otherwise bald head. His eyes, already dwarfed by his wrinkles, nearly disappeared as he glared at Herio. “Were you coming back any time soon, or would you like to sit and chat for a bit more?”

It was only then that Chill realized they were not alone on this cliffside. There were, in fact, several others a few yards to the left—presumably where the old man had come from—watching the exchange expectedly.

He wondered if Neeila had noticed them, until he realized how stupid that was. Of course Neeila had, she could literally use her eyes to that affect. It just so happened that she was not the type to censor her speech for anything, not even an audience of strangers.

There were times when Chill was envious of her sight. Not often—he made do well enough without most of the time, and one could not theoretically miss what they had never truly known—but at times like this, such an ability would be useful, especially since all his other senses seemed to be shutting down one by one, like the functions on a ramshackle mill machine far past its disposal date.

“Aye, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Herio answered with a dismissive wave as he dragged his body to its feet. 

“Who are you?” Neeila asked the man, not bothering to hide her distaste at the attitude given towards her brother.

“An acquaintance,” Herio answered when he was finally upright again. To the man he said, “I’m sorry, I know time is of the essence.”

“Why? Is he who you are planning the escape with?” Neeila asked, perking up like the mongrels Herio compared Chill too.

“Even better,” Herio said, the smugness of his smile apparent in his voice. “We are planning a revolt.”

Neeila’s jaw dropped. She was utterly speechless, but Chill could feel the way the excitement the two men brought about begin to take hold of her. 

Chill hated it. He hated the way they livened her, the way they filled her with hope again and again. Because that was what prisoners do: plan and fight and fail, again and again. It happened the same way every time and every time Neeila was so sad, and Chill hated it when Neeila was sad. He really, really hated it, because Neeila was what Chill imagined what the sun would be like without the clouds that block it and the atmosphere that made it too hot. She was what the sun on _Earth_ was, whole and warm and shining so bright that—

He did not realize he was falling forward until Neeila’s hand on his chest was stopping him. She pushed him back onto her shoulder without preamble.

“What can I do?” he heard her ask. “I want to help.”

Before Herio could speak, probably to deny her offer equally on the grounds of brotherly rudeness and brotherly concern, the old man said, “Spread the word. Once we’ve got a definitive plan together, which we would love to get back too. Herio, if you would—"

A light flashed so brightly even Chill could see it behind his blindfolded eyelids.

Then a deafening boom—like a bomb, or an eruption, or thunder from lightning strong enough to split land—shatters their eardrums.

Chill could not hear anything, only the strain in his throat told him that he was screaming. The world truly spun then. Beneath his body, the ledge beneath them shook and shook until it was not a ledge at all anymore. Neeila was lost to him then, as was everything else.

There was nothing left but Chill, the air sweeping icy kisses on his skin, and the long, long fall.

* * *

For many hours, before it finally clicked, they were hopelessly stuck.

They had tried so many ways to make the dragon balls operate. They had tried rearranging them, cleaning them, chanting to them, stacking them, even _begging_ them. All of it was for naught—nothing made the dragon appear. No, all the balls did was continue to glow rapidly below as the wooden table beneath them groaned and cracked as if it could not handle the weight. 

_Stay calm_ , Reiko reminded himself. There was no use raging like his father. That had not made the balls work anymore than the other attempts had.

He paced back and forth in the protective box, running his hard fingers through his brown hair. His thoughts were whirling but he was still mindful enough not to kick the body of the girl lying there, wheezing raggedly in her sleep. He doubted she would have noticed if he had—the girl had had yet to regain consciousness as far as he knew. His father had kept her with the intentions of flogging her to death in the courtyard for her attempted escape. Of course, Reiko knew the value of punishment, but putting a child the same size his Hilla had been through that kind of agony seemed more than a little excessive. Not that he would argue that point. Reiko knew both when to keep his mouth shut and when to back down.

"Lord Reiko?" He turned to regard the guard addressing him. "What do you purpose that we do now, sir?"

If impatience and anxiousness were not already warring inside of him, he would have been amused that once again, despite his father holding the title of 'Warden', the guards almost always came to him in times of crisis.

Unfortunately, all he could reply with was, "I'm not sure what else we can do." 

He had tried to say it quietly, so as not to alert his temperamental father, but Ziloh still seemed to have heard him loud and clear.

"That's bullshit!" He shouted so loudly that Herio could smell the lingering tobacco on his breath. "I did not come so close to finally achieving true power just so we could get stuck here!"

Reiko turned away from him, trying not to show the embarrassment he felt towards his father's umpteenth outburst, particularly since the man had not offered even one solution to their problem. Even worse, he thought, was that Ziloh was the one most responsible for the predicament they were in. No one would say it, but Reiko knew everyone was thinking just how idiotic Ziloh was for not bothering to learn all he needed to know about the dragon balls _before_ they were glowing on their grand table. How could his father have been so foolish as to steal objects of such power without a proper plan?

Really though, Reiko was not in the least bit surprised. He knew exactly the type of man his father was: a flighty, twisted, impulsive one, with a weakness for boys with small bodies and soft faces. Reiko almost wished his father had insisted on his little 'pet Frieza' accompanying him here. Perhaps he would not be so useless if he had a chance to blow off steam.

Frieza's son had been a gift sent straight from the late King Hikso, it seemed. Admittedly, it turned Reiko's stomach when he thought about it too much. Not that his father was the only one to take liberties with prisoners—many guards did. From the way they would talk about it afterward, he figured they got off on some type of power play. Reiko, personally, felt he himself had more than enough power—he did not need to _play_ at anything.

Even so, the guards who engaged in _that_ usually chose women. And even if they wanted a boy, they would normally at least pick one who was past the first stages of puberty. As far as Reiko could tell, the brat of Frieza had yet to reach that point, and he had been warming his father's bed for many years now.

Reiko loved his father, but he could not deny that he was just a bit disgusting.

Zikoh shouted again and kicked the wall in frustration. Reiko was going to retort something—perhaps suggest that he go and seek out his pet and leave the rest of them in peace—when a crash suddenly sliced through the room. All eyes turned towards the grand table, which now laid in a broken heap on the floor. The balls continued to glow.

When the shock diminished, anger took its place inside of him. The power was right there glowing like beacons, just waiting to be harnessed. Yet, it chose to taunt him. It taunted the home they were trying to protect from the _pest_ who sought to subjugate it. It taunted the pain of a father without his daughter.

 _Why?_ He wanted to scream, to demand, to understand. _Why are you denying me the only things I've ever wanted? Why have you come to raise the hopes I've long since given up?_

"Sir," a guard next to him said, her voice sounding almost gentle. "Perhaps the Earth dragon balls have no true powers at all."

"No. They do," He told her almost desperately, "They _must_. You see the power inside of them just as well as I do. There _must_ be a way to reach it."

He dropped abruptly into a chair and buried his face deep into his hands. "But _how_? We have stacked them in the order of their stars, we have cleaned them until we could see our faces in them, we have spoken to them—" 

Then it clicked.

The balls were from Earth.

They would only answer to an earthling language.

Translators were interesting devices. They changed the sound wavelengths of speech, so any language that came to their ears was automatically translated into Tenego. Likewise, the words they spoke would be changed to match the ears they were speaking directly too. If they spoke to an earthling, they would hear whatever earthling language they knew best, and vice versa.

However, the dragon balls were not living entities. Their Tenego speech would not change when they spoke to them. The words would need to come from an earthling's mouth.

And they had three of them in their custody.

Reiko did not bother to explain his revelation. He stormed from the room, only distantly aware of the loyal guards that tail him without question. He marched down hall after hall, down staircase after staircase, until he reached the Sector of the Cells—the place they left all new prisoners pending proper induction.

The three earthlings cowered in fear as the bars to their cell were slid to the side. Two of them were dark skinned, a male and a female with similarly frightened faces and pleas for mercy coming through their whimpers. The pale one with the gunshot wound barely seemed to notice them, hardly any lucidity left in his clouded grey eyes.

The pale one was too far gone, and the girl was starting to hyperventilate from her hysteria. Useless.

They choose the second male. He fought and the girl did too, trying to pull the boy back into the cell. She fought until a guard smashed the handle of his whip against her temple.

"Koa!" the girl slurred desperately around her sobs. "Koa! Koa!"

They were heart-wrenching cries, but the only tears he sees were the ones streaked on the face of his daughter's mutilated corpse. Nothing would stop him from seeing her whole again.

The earthling called Koa fights for longer after that. He kept fighting until Reiko dug the barrel of his gun into his face. Reiko kept it there all the way up the stairs and back down the hallways until they have returned to the grand room. Several eyes turned towards them, probably filled with looks of awe or relief or hope. Reiko regarded at none of them. There was no time for looking when the key to his daughter's soul was seconds away from opening the lock.

Reiko dragged the earthling forward with a fist clenched in the curls of his hair. He pushed the boy down onto his knees, right before the glowing orbs. "Demand the dragon to appear!" 

The human said nothing. He was crying fat tears and choking on his sobs.

Reiko wondered why his father seemed to believe that just because he did not say it, Reiko did not know exactly what he thought of him. Reiko knew his father thought he was too soft-hearted, a naive child in the body of a man. Reiko would not deny that he had been that man for almost every day of his life.

He was not that man now. Today he was a prince, a protector of his home, a man who loved his child, and he would not stop at anything to see it all come to fruition. 

Reiko kicked the boy hard in his spine, sending him onto his hands with a helpless cry. He whipped out his gun again and pressed it so deep into his temple the skin depressed around it. “Tell the dragon to come forth or I'll kill you now!”

“P-Please, c-come,” the boy cried, presumably in his earthling tongue. “Please help me! Please, please, help me!”

And just like that, the lock unlatched.

The entire room watched with bated breaths as the balls gleamed even more rapidly, the tempo growing faster as each second passed. The looks of awe quickly became looks of fear when suddenly, the balls shined out a blinding light, and an invisible force threw Reiko and all the rest back several feet.

Much happened in the next moments. His body was stunned still, but he felt hands gripping his skin. He felt himself being dragged through the room, the energy in the air so heavy it nearly sent them all back to the floor and growing worse by the second. He was taken from the room, and then he was taken upwards. Then he was back in the safety of the skybox and his father's concerned eyes were little more than twin, navy blurs.

He thought he heard his father call his name before everything exploded in a burst of white.

TBC


	17. The Hour

Chapter Sixteen: _The Hour_

**_The Past:_ **

On a day that was just like the day before, and all the days before that, Neeila's mother died.

Chill knew it even before she said it. He could feel it the moment Neeila sat down next to him, could feel it in the way her body slumped like a string-less puppet. He could feel that her face had no smile and had not for a long while. He could feel that all of her warmth had frozen away like it had never been there at all.

Chill knew, but he listened to her anyway. 

"I tried to wake her," Neeila said in a voice that sounded as if she were the one rotting in the grave. "I tried to wake her, but she wouldn't. I tried to open her eyelids, but they were to stiff..."

He listened to her, even though with every word she seemed to drift further and further away from him. "They just... just took her away. Dropped her on top of those other dead bodies and wheeled her away, but she’s not supposed to be there. She’s not, she’s not...”

Where before she was slipping, suddenly she was cracking, so clearly, he could almost hear each break. “It’s not right. It’s not right. We aren’t supposed to be here. We are supposed to be _home_ , not here and it's all _his fault_.”

It was not the first time she had mentioned a 'he'. Chill never asked who she meant by that.

She was crying then. He had never witnessed Neeila shed tears before. He had never seen her be so sad before. Neeila was always smiling, always laughing. It had stressed him before, the flippant, reckless way she would display every emotion that crossed her heart. Now, he wanted it back. He did not want her to cry. He did not want her to be so sad that it seemed she would never be happy again.

Even more so, he wanted to see.

He could not say why he chose to do it, then. If Chill had better understood social interactions, he might have known that he could not have chosen a worse time to do it. Yet, he did not understand. All he knew was that Neeila was right there, and for once, for just one moment, he wanted to see.

He lifted the blindfold. When he opened his eyes, he looked only at her.

She was nothing like he imagined and exactly what he imagined all at once.

Her skin was white. No—pale was the word. Her skin was very pale. Her uniform was striped, like his. One of her sleeves hung down her tiny shoulder, the other ripped clean off. Her uniform was dirty and missing the top button. The billowing collar exposed the sharpness of her clavicle.

Her hair was very bright, so much so that it nearly hurt his eyes. Her hair was not quite fluffy like he imagined. It was as bedraggled as one would expect neglected hair to be, like the kind stuff he would find crammed inside their flimsy pillows. Even so, he liked her hair, liked the “blonde” color, even if it made his eyes hurt. He liked how long it was, for even tied back and thrown over her shoulder, it still reached down to her waist. He liked the way her bangs framed her face.

There were odd, near shiny things clustered on her thin face, he saw then. All over her body, really, but especially across the bridge of her nose and just under her eyes. They were small and round and plentiful, but not too many. He could have probably counted them all if he had wanted. Something about them made him think her whole face would look different if only the light would shine.

Chill could not tear his eyes away from her face. He thought he really liked her face.

Even more than her face—he liked her eyes. He knew the colors the instant he saw them: dark, long lashes, bound together in wet clumps; white sclera, tainted red from dilated glands; black pupils, large from the lack of light; green irises, gleaming in the water of her tears.

He thought there might have been nothing in the world he liked more than her eyes.

She did not like his eyes.

She screamed.

He tugged the blindfold back down, but it was too late.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

It might have been the Kami side of him influencing his opinion, but Piccolo liked the Lookout more than any place in the world. 

He liked it most, he thought, because it was so quiet. Humans were very noisy creatures, especially when they were congregated together, as they often liked to be. Their cities were loud, their transportation vehicles were loud, even their bodies, all the way from their voices to the stomping way they walked, were loud.

Piccolo did not like to be around them. There were places in the world that humans did not taint with their presence, but not many, and even those places were not immune to the occasion wanderer.

Piccolo did not hate humans, but he did not relish being in their presence. Gohan and his other comrades were one thing, but otherwise, he had no interest in trying to understand the inherent strangeness of humans, nor was he eager to have them try and understand him. No, Piccolo preferred to be wherever the humans were not, and the Lookout was the best place in the world to accomplish that. That the Lookout was also calm and quiet was really just an added bonus.

Today, though, he was not here seeking peace and solitude. No, today, he was a protector. Not quite of Earth, but of one boy.

A useless protector, he thought, as Dende suddenly gave out a pain-filled, ear-piercing scream.

Piccolo was next to him in a flash, though could think of nothing else to do than to helplessly hold his arm. Eventually, the screaming stopped, but his ears still rang with the terrible sound of it. 

Piccolo was not surprised it had reached this point. In fact, he had spent all this time with bated breath, so sure that the other shoe would eventually drop. Apparently, the further the balls went from the atmosphere in which their creator resided in, the more pain said creator felt. Neither of them had even thought to expect such a phenomenon.

Dende’s condition had been growing steadily worse as the hours passed, until Earth's Guardian was hardly even able to stand. Now, Dende was on the ground, and seemed as if he was barely holding onto consciousness. His fingers trembled at his temple, his mouth moaning out his agony.

“Dende,” Piccolo said, gripping his shoulder desperately in his hand. “Dende!”

Dende seemed to not even hear him.

Piccolo watched his guardian quiver and sob on the marble floor for several more seconds before he turned away, unable to watch any longer while useless to help.

All he could do was speculate. The most logical conclusion was that the enemy must have managed to activate the dragon balls.

When he noticed Mr. Popo running from the building, he left Dende's side. He went until he was close enough to look over the edge of the Lookout.

Down past the clouds, he saw it all: countless land hurricanes, earthquakes, tornados, volcanic eruptions, one monster of a tsunami barreling towards an island nation totally unaware it was coming...

All this, just from the activation, and possibly only the beginning. Would it get worse? What would happen if the enemy made a wish? They could be doing so already, and Goku and Vegeta might not have even arrived yet—

From here, Piccolo could see the other Z-fighters as well. The Android woman was combatting a tidal wave that nearly took out the entirety of the Kame House. Krillin was on the mainland with his groceries abandoned while he helped humans trapped under rubble from the earthquake. Gohan was with Yamcha of all people, preventing the lava of a once dormant volcano from destroying an ill-prepared town.

Piccolo growled once more at his own uselessness. He could not leave Dende's side any more than he could take the pain away. His only option was to wait for the saiyans to return and set everything right. 

_Hurry, Goku,_ Piccolo thought almost desperately. _Hurry before there is no Earth left for you to return to._

* * *

" _Goku, wake up. Goku. Goku. Goku_!"

"Huh! Huh?" Goku called out as he shot upright. He immediately groaned and dropped back down, completely overwhelmed by the lightness in his head and the way the world spun. Even saiyans were not immune to blood pressure complications when standing too fast.

It took Goku an extra moment to realize that it was King Kai speaking to him telepathically, but before he could amend his greeting, the Kai was already speaking again.

" _You know you’re going to be landing in a few minutes, right? Now would be a really good time to wake up!_ "

“Oh right,” Goku said, and it was then that he could finally register his surroundings. He was lying on a futon, covered on all sides by his blanket. Beside him, Vegeta laid on his own futon, still asleep.

“Thank you, King Kai,” Goku said to the ceiling.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said back. “Now, wake up Vegeta, and be quick about it. The sooner you get back, the better. Things are getting really bad back on Earth.”

That brought Goku up short. Warily, he asked, “Bad? What do you mean?”

King Kai was silent for a moment, then, “Bad like the planet really does not like that the dragon balls are gone.”

It did not go unnoticed how King Kai had not actually answered the question. Goku decided not to call him out on it. He was uneasy, not knowing what was happening to his planet, but he did his best not to worry. It would do him no good, after all. The only way to stop the chaos was to return what was taken. He could do nothing until he had the dragon balls back in his possession.

Besides, King Kai had said that the planet’s condition was only _starting_ to get bad, so there was still time. His friends and his family would be fine. He had to believe that.

When he felt King Kai’s presence fade, he turned his head to the side and looked down at Vegeta. It must be a testament to how tired Vegeta was, that Goku’s voice hadn’t woken him up. He had not even made an effort to whisper, yet Vegeta slept on. It was especially strange, because Vegeta seemed like the type who could snap back to awareness at the drop of a pin. Like true warriors, Piccolo had said once, when Goku asked. Goku supposed he knew what he meant by that. Goku had been on his own most of his youth, but he never really had to worry about being attacked in his sleep. There were very few things that could have truly hurt him, especially not things that were enemies.

Goku wondered what that must be like, to be on your toes even while you dreamed. It sounded exhausting.

Vegeta wasn’t sleeping like that now, though. He was on his back on his futon, his body relaxed, his face turned ever so slightly in Goku’s direction. His brows were slightly furrowed though, like even in his sleep he couldn’t help but to be grumpy.

Despite the look on his face, there was a peaceful quality to it. Vegeta had most definitely needed the rest. It was a shame he had to wake him up.

"Hey, Vegeta," Goku said, shaking the man’s shoulder. “Wake—”

Vegeta’s eyes snapped open as if he had never even been asleep at all. His body was stiff on the futon, but the eyes that looked over at Goku were almost wild.

Vegeta seemed to recognize him because the wildness dimmed somewhat. “Why did you wake me?” he asked, and his tone suggested that Goku should most definitely have a good reason for doing so.

“We’re going to be landing soon,” he answered. 

Vegeta blinked at him. Goku regarded him again, thinking that despite the hours of sleep they just got, Vegeta looked like he had never known rest in his life.

"I see," he said and nothing else. He stood to his feet and left without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

It was Neeila’s voice that Chill heard when he awakened.

She was saying something to him, but while he knew her voice, he did not know her words. They were stifled, distant—there but not. He did not mind. Even if he did not know what she was saying, the fact that the sound of her voice was not denied to him at all was more than enough.

He remembered then that she hated to be ignored. He used to do that to her a lot in the early days. She would speak and he would never to her. He would not even face her, tried to let her words pass over him as if they were never meant for him, because back then, he did not understand her. He did not understand why she made an effort to sit next to him every time they ate. He did not understand why she followed him whenever she had the chance. He did not understand why she would ask the questions she would ask. Why did she care what his favorite assignment was, or what meal was his preferred, or if he had slept well the night before?

Chill did not like things that confused him, and so, in the beginning he had not liked Neeila at all.

Now though, he liked a lot of things about her. He liked that she spoke to him, even when most of the time, he could not find it in himself to speak words back. He liked the feel of her skin, even when sometimes he was too high-strung to let her touch him. He liked the things she talked about even though she talked very fast sometimes and most of the things she said made no sense.

He liked that she liked him. She was the only one; not even the Warden liked him the way she liked him. He liked that Neeila, with the pretty voice and even prettier eyes, was someone he could call a friend.

Eventually her voice began to clear. Even still, she made no sense, because all she was saying was, “ _Oh no_ ,” over and over again.

Pain filtered in even slower than her voice had, but it came. He could not help the groan that fell from his lips.

“Chill?” She practically leapt on him. The hands on his arms tightened, and her face was so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek.

He groaned again in response.

“Oh, thank Goddess,” she said. “You looked like you were dead.”

He could feel her hands patting him down. The further her hands got, the more he hissed in pain.

“You—your leg is—your leg is broken,” she said, sounding frazzled and authoritative all at once. “I’ve gotta—I’ve gotta put it back.”

Before he could even protest, she was already forcing his bone back into its socket.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he heard her saying once the high of pain had faded.

Everything came back to him slowly, but surely. Their platform had fallen apart, but they were not dead. His senses came back to him as well. He realized that the world around him was actually being very loud, so loud that Neeila’s voice might as well have been a whisper. The air was hot, near stifling. It smelled like dust. Even more than that, it smelled like blood.

He started to pull himself up and despite her help, he did not get far. His head spun and suddenly he was pitching over onto her, his face burying in the bones of her chest. He groaned again, pressing at his temple with his hand where the pain was the most intense. His fingers grew just a bit damp with blood, and he guessed he must have hit his head on impact.

Neeila’s arms came up around him, holding him tight against her, as if he had the strength to try and pull away anyway. “Shh,” she told him. “Just be still. I’ve got you.”

He stayed still, pressed against her as he willed the waves of pain to lessen. He could feel her hair bunched up underneath his face. It smelled like dirt and sweat. It was still very, very soft.

“Neeila? Neeila!” Herio’s voice called out, much too loud for how close he sounded.

“I’m over here!” Neeila called back, and Chill figured it must be dark wherever they are for them to not simply see each other with their eyes.

Herio’s feet were loud as he clambered over the uneven rocks beneath them. When he reached them, he began to speak in Mangelin, and the words were too fast and advanced for Chill to try and follow, so he simply let the sounds wash over him. Mangelin was a very pretty language. Far easier on his ears than the Tene language. The Tene language had always sounded very harsh to him. Every syllable sounded like it was made for commands and for shouting. Mangelin sounded like the kind of language that mothers would speak to soothe their children to sleep at night.

Chill hardly noticed the pause in Neeila's words as she stopped to spit out a wad of blood, but Herio did.

“Your tooth is falling out!” he exclaimed, horrified.

“Yeah, well that happens when you smack your face on the ground,” she said, but her words still carried a note of distress.

" _Neeila_ ," Herio said, sounding almost close to tears.

“The tooth is just a little loose,” she told him. Chill thought she might be trying to tell herself that. “If I leave it alone, it might even heal. Don’t worry about it.”

To Chill, she said, “How funny is that? I literally just got done telling you about how badass our teeth are and now one is about to fall out of my face.”

Chill did not think it was funny at all, but he understood what she was trying to say.

Eventually there was another groaning sound, and Herio moved away. There was the sound of shuffling as Herio said, “Come on, old man, get up.”

Chill remembered then that there were others on the cliff aside from Neeila and Herio and him. The old man, who was standing near them must be alright, but the others who were standing further away were not. He realized that must be where the smell of blood was coming from.

He hoped Neeila was not looking at the mess their corpses must be making. Even now, after all these years, her dreams were still haunted by gruesome sights such as that.

“What happened?” Neeila eventually asked, as if any of them ought to know.

“There was a planet-quake,” the old man answered regardless. “It seems like we just got lucky.”

“I wouldn’t call this lucky,” Herio said, and it was true. They did not die, but the odds still were not in their favor. The enclosing was tall enough that they could stand, but too small for much else. Every side was closed together by the rocks that were once the cliffside, the rocks above them so precariously fitted together they seemed moments away from collapsing on their heads and doing away with the lot of them.

As if to prove the point, the rocks above them began to grumble, shifting audibly and forebodingly before settling once more. It would not be long before they collapsed altogether.

If not that, then the lack of oxygen would certainly do them in, Chill thought, as he breathed in and out what seemed to be the same puff of air. He felt like he was back in the mines, where the oxygen was hot and stagnant and near torturous in its own right. At least in the mines, the situation was not permanent. The hours would drag on and on, but they would always end; there was always a way out.

There was none here.

That did not stop the others from trying. He could hear them, the old man and the siblings, knocking around, pushing on the walls, banging on the floor, trying to find anywhere the rocks were malleable enough to allow them to escape.

Chill leaned back against the wall. He did not bother to try and dissuade them, even though he knew it was useless. There was no way out. His time had run dry. It seemed that the payment for the sins of his sire could no longer be fulfilled on the realm of the living.

He was going to die this day.

It was always going to come down to this eventually. Every choice he had ever made in life, was constructed to bring him here, to this place in this moment. Admittedly, he never thought it would be this way. He always thought that when the timer he had been given finally clicked to a stop, it would be from the Warden's hand. Who else would have the power to decide when his life was through? No one else but him. It was always him.

Yet here he was, trapped under the rubble that had granted him a few more moments of clarity in this world before death came for him. 

He wondered idly what his punishment will be in death. What was waiting for him in Hell?

Maybe there would be nothing waiting for him.

It was an interesting thought that maybe he truly would be done paying for his sire’s sins. Unrealistic, but perhaps not farfetched. He would never be greeted with heaven, he knew, but maybe he would not see Hell, either. Maybe when he died, he would just be—nothing.

That would be a blessing, he thought. To just... stop.

He knew better than to hope for blessings, though. No matter what greeted him on the other side, he knew he would deserve it, and he was ready for it.

He wondered why then before, when Neeila nearly dropped them both off the cliffside, he had felt fear then. Perhaps it was the adrenaline—his mind unable to fight against his body's natural response to danger. That was the only explanation he could think of to explain why the thought of falling off the cliffside then had filled him with near mind-numbing fear.

Now, he felt no fear. He did not feel much of anything at all.

He did feel guilt though, as the other prisoners continued to beat against the rocks with their hands; scrap at cracks with their fingers; try everything they could to break free. None of them had yet accepted that they will die here with him.

It was very unfortunate that other lives had to get caught up in the force of his destruction. Though he was not truly surprised, he thought as he listened to Neeila curse and grunt as she threw her body against a rock quadruple her weight. No, he was not at all surprised about what he had just condemned her to.

He had always known that he would be her downfall.

* * *

A morbid part of Vegeta, the most awful part of him, thought that the planet looked hauntingly beautiful in the vacuum space.

In terms of color, it was not terribly unique. Vegeta had seen many planets in his lifetime and would say that Tene'mareen's burgundy shade was not all that distinguishing. Yet, there was something almost mesmerizing about the way the atmosphere swirled—like a painting. The entire body of it glowing against the black backdrop, was nearly enchanting, like what he imagined the sun would look like if its rays did not blind the observer. Even the shocks of electricity, sparking across the blanket of swirls, were alluring in their promise of danger.

It was a beautiful planet, and he despised himself for thinking so. Still, its beauty was not enough to endear him to it at all. If anything, Vegeta found beautiful things even easier to hate.

And oh, did he hate it. His eyes marveled at it, but the rest of him seethed at the sight. The hatred that burned through his blood was raw, deep, true. It was a loathing that even he rarely experienced. Only failure made him burn so.

And that was what it always came back to, did it not? That was what the anger really was for. It was not the planet with its beautiful color and swirls and glow. It was not even the Warden, the bastard who would soon meet his death at Vegeta’s hand.

It was him. It was _him_.

It was him because the planet, the Warden, none of that shit would matter if Vegeta had not failed in the first place, if Vegeta had not failed every single day for the past thirteen years.

Every single one of those days that the boy suffered, was because Vegeta took the word of liars. He took Zarbon’s message as truth and thought nothing of it. Why? Never in his life had he ever trusted a word that came from Frieza and his cohorts. Why would he accept his words then, the time when knowing the truth was most crucial?

Because he was hurt, he knows. He had buried the memories, but not so deeply he could not bring those old feelings back to the surface. He knows that then, in that moment, he did not want to think of the baby that was taken from him before he even had a chance to make the choice himself. He knows that by the time he could think rationally—when the incisions in his gut no longer ached, when the blinding rage had dimmed—he had already buried the boy down deep where all the other dark parts of him were, so deep he had forgotten that there was even something to forget.

But that was no excuse. There was nothing to justify it. His offspring, his blood, his _son_ had spent the entirety of his little life suffering and it was Vegeta’s fault.

Vegeta had never been close with his—now younger—son, not in the way a proper father should have been. Yet at least he could say he had seen the day Trunks lost his first tooth, had been there the first time he performed his katas correctly, had been the first to see him reach a level of power Vegeta would not have even dreamed of possessing at his age. Even when Vegeta was not there when he should have been, the boy had a loving mother, doting grandparents, a gang of weak but loyal humans who would always do their best to protect the son of the woman they called their friend.

His older son had had no one, and it was Vegeta’s fault. The only thing that deserved his anger was he himself.

Yet, anger at himself—the kind that could not be so easily punched away or subdued—would make him irrational. He could not act irrationally, not now, not with this, not with what was at stake.

So, he turned his anger out, out onto the planet that was too beautiful for its own good, to the Warden who still had to pay for every hurt he had ever caused his son. His own berating would come.

The machine said it would take about five more minutes to reach their destination. Despite his disgusting admiration, his goal did not change. He would see this planet destroyed by his own hands once he had retrieved what he came for, every beautiful inch of it.

Five more minutes, the machine said. Five more minutes, the anticipation brewing in his gut said. Five more minutes...

He could sense Kakarot approaching him. He did not turn to acknowledge him, but the other man did not seem to notice (or care about) the rebuff.

Vegeta tried very hard not to think about the night before. The tale of the 'bathing incident' had not been the only story Kakarot felt the need to share. It was not that the stories were bad per say, quite the opposite actually. Vegeta found himself not only listening to him, but admittedly intrigued with Kakarot's tales of past adventures and childhood escapades. He had listened to each one intently, until the lull of sleep finally claimed him. Like a child.

No, Vegeta thought it would be quite alright if they never spoke of that night ever again.

Kakarot stopped next to him, but for a while, said nothing. They stood together, watching as the planet grew closer in the window. Vegeta could not help but to wonder if Kakarot found the planet to be beautiful as well. That was not the kind of thing he would ever ask.

Eventually, Kakarot broke the silence. “You know, for a very long time, I didn’t know what the word ‘regret’ meant."

Vegeta turned to him, unsure what he expected Kakarot to say but certainly not that.

“When I was really young, there were lots of words I didn’t really understand. Bulma said it’s because I was isolated and didn’t really develop socially like other people do. The only person I ever knew was my grandpa, so I only learned the things I saw him doing, you know?" 

A look came over his eyes, a distantly fond one, Vegeta thought. 

“He would try to teach me words, but they didn’t always make sense, or I wouldn’t understand him the way he wanted me too. He tried to tell me what regret was, but I always thought of it for simple things, like ‘I regret putting out the fire because I didn’t realize it was going to be very cold tonight’ or 'I regret eating all that fish because now my stomach hurts'. I didn’t really understand that the word 'regret' really applies to things that are more serious than that.”

Kakarot glanced at him for a moment, before looking away. "My grandpa said to me once, 'Goku, I would tell you to live your life without regrets, but that’s just not possible. Instead, try and live it unapologetically'.

"I don't think I really believed him when he told me that." He seemed almost amused by that. "I definitely didn't believe him after I left my forest. I always thought that humans were pretty odd. I didn’t understand why they talked the way they did or why they did the things they did. Because of that, I couldn't help but to assume that meant I was different."

Kakarot shook his head, seemingly at himself. "But I’m not really different from regular humans. Everyone has regrets and I have them too."

Vegeta stayed silent, surprised that this was coming out of his companion's mouth. He had watched the man's lips, and he was certain the words he was hearing were coming from Kakarot, but he just could not make sense of the phenomenon.

“I always considered myself to be a good person, but it turns out I’m actually pretty selfish. I’ve disappointed people,” Kakarot said, not even self-deprecatingly—simply stating a fact. “I’ve done things that I thought were right but were actually wrong. I’ve done things that I _knew_ were wrong and did them anyway. Awful things, that I can’t ever make right. People have been hurt because of my choices, people that I care about.” Kakarot took a deep, long breath. “I know that my mistakes might not seem as bad as yours, but I’ve been where you are. I’m _still_ there."

Vegeta only then realized that Kakarot was trying to console him. Before he could even have a proper thought on how he felt about that, Kakarot was already going on, “I’ve learned that a regret is something bad that makes you wish you could go back in time just to change it. That’s what makes it awful, because you can’t change it. You just have to accept that it happened and deal with it."

Kakarot looked him right in his eyes then. “That doesn’t mean you can’t try and make it right,” he said. “And that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Maybe it isn’t enough, but there are people who don’t try at all. There were times when I hadn’t tried. But you are, and even if it’s not enough it’s still worth something."

Firmly, with no room for argument, Kakarot said, "Maybe we can't live without regret or unapologetically, but that doesn't mean we can't live the best we can. It definitely doesn't mean it's not worth trying. It’s never too late to do better.”

Vegeta... did not know what to say, so for a long while, he said nothing. 

As far as speeches went though, it was not an awful one. One might even say it was exactly what he needed to hear, but Vegeta would never bring himself to say something as ludicrous as that. Just as he would never say that Kakarot’s words might have lightened some of the heaviness inside of him.

How could Kakarot break out of his naïve, pure persona, he wondered, and speak something one could almost say was profound (at least by his standards)? He wondered just how Kakarot could one moment be the goofy idiot who fought villains just for the fun of it, and the next be a man with problems and imperfections and pain in his soul just like everyone else?

He thought that he did not really know Kakarot all that well. He might not even know him at all. 

Kakarot was no less the low-class clown that he had always been—Vegeta would never think otherwise—but it seemed that he might also be something... different. Something more.

Vegeta said, “Maybe you’re not a complete idiot.”

Kakarot’s face lit up like one of those gods-awful trees Bulma always put up in their living room during the wintertime holiday. Vegeta turned away before the fool could blind him with the brightness of his ridiculous smile, feeling absurdly embarrassed.

The smile was wiped quickly off Kakarot's face when the floor suddenly rocked beneath them. It was almost mortifying how low they let their guards drop that they both end up tumbling to the ground. Vegeta did not have time to properly berate himself for allowing such humiliation to come to pass. He was rather occupied by assessing the room, taking in the urgently flashing red lights and the robotic voice from the control panel calling, “ **DANGER. SYSTEM OVERLOAD. SYSTEM OVERLOAD.** ”

Vegeta was not entirely sure what that meant, so he did not know what to say when Kakarot urgently questioned, “Vegeta! What’s happening?!” but he would bet that it was nothing good.

The electric shocks sparking across the ceiling certainly helped with his theory. The shocks began crawling down the walls and across the floor, and he hissed when one unexpectedly zapped his arm. The system's message of danger and despair soon cut out and every screen began flashing uselessly.

Then he was no longer on the floor and instead falling rather fast towards what he figured must be the ceiling, because of course the gravity stabilizer would decide to go out as well.

He landed on his feet before he could splatter in a graceless heap, relying on his own power to keep himself from tumbling any further. Kakarot landed next to him in a somewhat less dignified manner.

“Vegeta!” Kakarot was shouting at him, hardly seeming to notice the electric shock leaving a red line across his cheek, “What should we do?!”

As if Vegeta would know. Clearly, they were crashing, falling through the atmospheric layer of clouds like a knife through warm butter, and Vegeta did not have the slightest clue what to do about it. How do you stop a spacecraft from crash landing when you do not even know what went wrong in the first place?

“Don’t let the ship make impact with the ground,” he said, thinking that at least that should have been obvious. “It might not be too broken to take us home, but if it crashes it’ll be useless!” Distantly, he thought Bulma would probably not appreciate him leaving behind what was probably very expensive equipment. He would be lying if he said he cared if it came to that.

The electricity taking over the spacecraft is suddenly subdued by the force of their combined and elevated energies. Like this he could focus—the chaos from before was almost slow before eyes could see motion faster than the speed of sound, the speed of light if he pushed himself even further. He could see the clouds whipping past the window, brown and murky like dirty Earth rivers. He could see the ground rapidly approaching.

There were only seconds before the ship crashed. With their power, it was more than enough time for them to fly to the other side and with their hands, slow its descent to the ground so it settled onto the ground almost gently.

After a moment, Goku said, “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

“Shut up,” Vegeta said, as he forced the door open.

The first thing he took in was the air, and it was so awful he nearly gagged on it. It was thick in his throat, and so hot he could feel the warmth of it burrowing deep within his lungs with every breath. It was like water—no, more like blood; there was no better way to describe it. He could certainly smell blood, tied in tight with the scent of dirt and the rottenness of sulfur. 

Then, when his eyes focused, he took it all in. Wherever they were, it was not a prison camp, or a civilian town. Their ship had landed in the middle of barren land, surrounded by cliffs on all sides, and dirt everywhere else. There was just as much chaos here as there was in the atmosphere, that was for sure. The cloudy sky rumbled with thunder, the ground beneath shattering from the assault of the bolts that rained down.

Beauty was only skin deep, indeed.

Vegeta tried to find something familiar in it, but he simply couldn’t. It had been nearly two decades ago when he had come here, and the visit had not at all been memorable. It was just another planet to stare down at from his space pod, some place to drop off prisoners he would have just preferred to kill and be done with. An odd warden, he remembered, but nothing else. A forgettable place, but one that had still managed to steal every year of his child’s life away.

 _Not yet,_ he told the rage that came forth. _Not yet._

He was still fighting it back when Kakarot stepped up next to him. He did not look, but he could sense Kakarot inspecting the ship behind them.

“I know you wanted to save it, but I don’t think it’s going to be able to fly anymore,” he said. “It’s still all... 'electric-y', and I doubt you have any more of an idea on how to fix it than I do.”

“Don’t ever say that idiotic word again,” Vegeta said back. “Do you think you’ll be able to transmit us back to Earth?”

Goku contemplated for a moment, his eyes closed and his fingers on his forehead. After a moment he said, “Yeah, I can feel our friends clearly.” He paused. “Their energy... they seem like they’re in trouble.”

Vegeta pointedly did not respond to that, even if he could not quite ignore the unease that it gave him. There was no point in worrying when he was too far away to do anything. In any case, Trunks was more than strong enough and smart enough to take care of himself and Bulma.

 _He is a child,_ a voice that sounded like Bulma’s—because surely, she had told him something like this before—came from somewhere inside of his head. _He is a child and not at all like you. Don’t expect things from him that you would have expected from yourself._

If not, then... There was Gohan, the Namekian, even the humans as far as maturity went. It was very unlikely Trunks would be put in any situations he could not handle with them around. Admittedly, he hoped it would not come to that. He was not fond of being indebted to Bulma’s and Kakarot’s motley band of fools.

“Do you think this is normal?” Kakarot asked him. “The planet being like this?”

Vegeta took in the lightning brutalizing the surface a second time. “Most likely not,” he said. As he had said, he remembered almost nothing of this world; he was sure that a planet hellbent on destroying itself would have been at least a little bit memorable to him.

Which meant that the most logical conclusion was: “They’ve activated the dragon balls.”

Damn it all. Ziloh was a fool and had condemned the lot of them to death. Not that it mattered. Once Vegeta had taken back what was his, this planet and its people could make their new home in the deepest depths of Hell and rot there for all he cared.

Kakarot looked at him, then he turned away, facing the hell that was before them. “Then I guess we better get a move on, then.”

Vegeta couldn’t have agreed more.

“I can’t teleport to the balls,” Kakarot said. “I can feel them, but their energies are too chaotic for me to focus on.”

Vegeta grit his teeth. That was an annoying set back. “You have the dragon radar, yes?”

Kakarot nodded, reaching into his pocket and holding it up. On his back was a single pack. “I’ll find the dragon balls. You find your son. Then, we’ll meet back here?”

“That sounds like a plan, Kakarot,” he said back, and powers up until the black of his hair faded to gold and his eyes to green. Kakarot followed suit. The more power they used after all; the less time it will take to do what needed to be done. 

He could feel it—time, that was. He could feel each and every second tick by, more and more time that his son was still _theirs_. 

“Hey,” Kakarot said. "You okay?”

“Fine,” he snapped, aware that he sounded the exact opposite. “Go get the dragon balls, and be quick about it.”

With that, he blasted off into the sky, never mind that he had no idea where to go. He could be going in the complete wrong direction for all he knew. Even so, every move he made had him feeling closer and closer.

 _I’m coming,_ he thought. _I’m coming for you._

_I’m coming for you, and damn anyone who dares to get in my way._

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember if it was a filler episode or not, but I'm almost 100% certain there was an episode where Goku was collecting the dragon balls and he was Instant Transmissioning to their locations. I assumed that meant the dragon balls have energy that can be sensed.
> 
> Furthermore, super saiyans look way more badass with green eyes instead of blue eyes and that’s the tea.


	18. The Eyes

Chapter Seventeen: _The Eyes_

The growing severity of the heat inside their enclosure—cut off from properly circulating air as it was—was doing no favors for the infection brewing in Chill's body.

He could not be one hundred percent certain as he was no medic, but he was quite sure that was what this was. There was no other reason for him to be this bothered by the heat. It was stifling, yes, but it was no hotter than the mines were, and that was not even taking in account the strenuous work he would be doing at the same time. Like this, not even required to so much as stand, he ought to be downright comfortable.

He was not. His headache banged to a steady, agonizing beat. Nausea sat dangerously in his gut, contracting his abdomen every now and then to mimic the vomiting he would be doing if he had anything inside of him to vomit up. Furthermore, somehow despite the heat, his core felt chilled (not a good chill either, nothing like that blissful temperature back on Earth) enough to make his muscles shiver. If not for the distressed noises Neeila made every time he nodded off, he would have let his exhaustion take him under by now.

Yes, it was most definitely an infection. He certainly had a long enough list of poorly treated injuries for that to be true. Was it the shoddily stitched knife wound along his leg? Was it the mangled remains of the soles of his feet? Was it the burns along his back that he could feel sticking wetly to the bandages that had been on for far too long? That was not even considering the odd small scraps and cuts on his body that could become fatally infected just as well.

_Or it could just be you. It could always just be you._

The others did not seem to be doing well either, but he thought that it might not simply be the heat doing them all in. It had taken them a long time to finally give up on finding a way out. Neeila had laid her head down on his shoulder and had not moved since, complaining of how light-headed she felt and the aching of her loosened tooth.

Chill thought it must have been adrenaline that kept them going then for how sluggish they all were now. At least, for Herio and Neeila. The old man might just be tired because he was old.

“Chill,” he heard Neeila say. Her voice sounded considerably less miserable than it had the last time she had tried to speak. She was very insistent on speaking, even when no one answered her. 

He thought that she was trying to take her mind off their impending deaths, coming closer to fruition with each minute that passed. It was a hard reality to ignore with the rocks above them grumbling every now and then, having no qualms against making their unstable nature known, voicing to them that their peace would end soon, but Chill let her do it. 

If deluding herself brought her comfort in the face of their mortality, then he would not be the one to deny her it. And if she wanted him awake and interacting with her up until the end, then he would do that too.

He waited, and eventually she spoke again. Her voice was neutral, casual even, not at all the tone worthy of the words she said, “Have I ever told you why I’m a prisoner here?”

That was... an odd question to ask. A stupid one, too, because she already knew the answer to it. 

He dipped his chin in a nod anyway. She had told him, in between the melancholy stories she would tell of her home. He knew as much as she knew: that the planet her people saw as beautiful, others saw as rich in resources, from the sap of their trees to the soil that grew vibrant life no matter the season. He knew that her people—who had apparently been ignorant of life in the universe beyond their own—stood no chance against an army they had never even known to fear. He knew that more than half of her people were slaughtered in the assault and that the other half were spared because Tene'mareen was willing to trade much of their own goods essentially in exchange for pretty faces its guards could take their liberties with.

Chill had wondered more than once if Neeila had ever experienced something like that. He had never seen it, but then again, she had never seen the times he spent with the Warden, either. He never asked. He thought probably not, because she had mentioned more than once that apparently living and growing up as a prison slave meant she was not as pretty as she ought to be. He knew, though, that that might not necessarily have made her safe. 

He knew with even more certainty that it was not something he ever wanted to know.

The thought of a guard doing something like _that_ to her made him feel... wrong inside. Very wrong. He never wanted anything like that to happen to her. For him, it was different—what he did with the Warden was not the same. For a faceless, merciless guard, one who would not know her name or care about the tears that would no doubt be on her face to do such a thing to her, it would just be something... something Neeila did not deserve.

“No, I mean,” she breathed out hard from her nose, and he remembered that she had been telling him something. “I mean the _whole_ reason why.”

“You haven’t told him yet?” Herio called, his voice nasty. “You haven't told him that his tyra—”

“Stop,” she said, hard.

Herio huffed but dutifully closed his mouth.

Chill’s brow furrowed. He was confused—not an uncommon emotion during his talks with her—but still very inconveniencing.

“I remember that day like it was yesterday,” she said, her voice small and distant, like she was talking to someone else. Or someone else was talking for her. “I’ve tried to forget, I’ve tried so hard, but I never will—"

The rocks shifted abruptly beneath their bodies. When the rocks stilled again, Herio’s voice called out, "Neeila?”

“Fine!” she called back. “I’m fine.”

The moment was short but frightening enough that Neeila’s nails dug into his forearm, frightening enough that his own heart still pounds even after the moment had passed.

_Still fearing death, little one?_

No. No, he didn’t. He could not help his body’s instincts, but he _was_ ready.

“Chill,” she said. “I need to tell you. I need to tell you why I’m here.”

 _So, tell me_ , he thought.

Without further preamble, she said, “The person who sent my people here was Frieza.”

Chill jolted upright. The motion sent a wave of pain through his body, but the tension did not leave. He should not be surprised, truly, but he had not expected her to say that name. Not so abruptly, so matter-of-factly.

His heart was pounding again just as it was before, pounding with fear. 

Fear of what? What right did he have to be afraid of the truth?

“I remember so much. I remember the fire, and the screaming. I remember being so _scared_.”

Her hands were curling tightly around the fabric of her pants covering her knees. She was going to cry, Chill knew. He could hear it in her voice, sense it in the way she held her body. He wanted to tell her she could stop, that she did not need to put herself through this. But his throat would not comply, so he could only let her continue.

“I remember _him_ ," she said. Chill could hear in her voice the moment tears began to fall. "I remember the horns on his head and the shade of his skin. I remember the awful sound of his voice and his—I remember his _eyes_."

_“No!” she said around her screams when her eyes locked with his. “No, no, no! Get away from me—get away!”_

“I saw him, Chill,” she said around a sob. “He was there, right in front of me, and he was a _monster_."

Herio put his arms around her then, seeming not to care that his skin brushed Chill's as a result. Chill could hear him whispering soothingly to her, but she did not stop. You could not stop a flood once the dam had been broken.

“He cut us down like we were _nothing_!" she cries, her voice reaching the point of hysteria "Like we were just-just-just some _nuisances_ in his way. The screaming was so loud, but I could still hear him laughing. _Laughing_ , Chill! He was laughing! And the look in his _eyes_...”

_She screamed and screamed and screamed..._

He ought to have known that her response then, when he had dared to gaze upon her face, had not been simply of hive minded hatred. No, it was something far more personal.

“He took my father from me before I even had a chance to memorize his face," she told him, the pain of years and years all combined at once. "He damned us here and I’ll never see the trees or the water or the stars ever again. All I will ever see is this horrible place that took my mother from me and it’s all because of him! He took everything from me! I _hate_ him. I hate him and I hope he rots in Hell forever!"

The Tyrant was probably the most important person to Chill. 

He did not mean that positively, just factually. His actions in life had determined Chill's life sentence before he had even been born. His reputation had dictated the way the universe would always see Chill. His blood gave Chill the awful color of his eyes.

Yet, despite how important the Tyrant was to his life, the man had always been something of an enigma to him; a secret that everyone knew but him. He knew the Tyrant was a conqueror, who subjugated more worlds in the universe than any other man combined. He knew the Tyrant was a monster, who destroyed countless lives and laughed while doing so. He had heard it all more times than he could count.

Yet hearing and knowing were not the same thing. Like a history student reading out of a textbook—you could memorize facts and dates and testimonies of long-dead strangers, but you could never truly understand, not if you did not hear the agony yourself, feel the pain yourself, see the hell of it all yourself.

Yet here, now, under the weight of Neeila's words, he felt that he did, for once, understand. He could hear the sound of explosions underneath a thousand screams. He could feel the heat of fire billowing around his face, flickering against his skin. He could see the sight of a world so beautiful falling to flames and ash; he could see the man that had caused it all. 

He could understand why the sight of his eyes was truly so terrible.

A monster, indeed.

It was very quiet in the enclosure after that, only the sound of Neeila’s tears filling the space. The crying stops eventually, but the rant took a lot out of her it seemed, for it required several more minutes of deep breathing before she was finally calm once more.

Like before, she was the one to break the silence. “I’m sorry, Chill.”

He turned to her, helplessly startled. It must show on his face because she went on, “I am. I’m not... this wasn’t the way I wanted to tell you.”

Chill wondered how else she could possibly have told him. By mincing the truth, perhaps, but coating bitterness with sweetness did not make the ugly any less real.

“I’m also sorry because I totally didn’t get my point across. Like, at all,” she said with a weak laugh.

He could not imagine what point she was trying to make other than what he had already deduced. All he could think about was the fact that he was still here, leaning against the girl his sire had wronged so terribly. He did not deserve to be here. He should be far away from her, repenting for the sins committed against her, reminding himself why he did not deserve to have such a nice thing like her in his life.

But she did not want him to leave. She wanted him here, and he would never understand why, but it was enough of a reason for him not to go.

“There was a saying back on my planet. ‘ _Goddess will not forgive a daughter bound by the steps of her mother’_ ," she recited. "To be honest, I never liked that saying. Why would I not emulate my mother, who was the one teaching me the way to live? Was that not the point of her being my mother—to teach me how to make decisions for myself?”

Her voice had sounded almost wistful then. Chill wondered if she was thinking of her own mother.

“But then I realized—that was the point," she said, and he could hear some of the lightness return to her voice, though why she was telling him this at all was still unclear. "There’s a bit of grey area in the quote, you see. Of course, the mother is still very important to the daughter in her youth. The point is that the child, as she grows, is supposed to become her own person, because the child is the only one truly responsible for her life. In turn, that means she cannot be responsible for any life but her own.”

He could feel her eyes on him then, piercing him deeper than any blade would as she said, "There is a similar phrase in patrilineal cultures. _'The sins of the father are not the sins of the son'_.”

Almost on cue, the rocks ahead, the physical manifestation of his final punishment, shifted forebodingly. Neeila's arms tensed around him, but, again, the moment passed. Death chose not to claim them just yet, and instead of indifference or even fear, he felt the burn of impatience. Now, Neeila had more time to speak these _lies_.

"I know you don't believe me, but it's true. The sins of your father are not yours. They never have been, and they never will be.”

 _No_ , he thought, using all the strength he had inside of him to pull away from her, to pull away from the falsities she would dare try and tell him.

She held fast. "You aren’t Frieza. You can't be anyone but who you are. You are Chill, and that’s who you’re always going to be.”

He could use the Mind Power, he thought desperately. He could—he could just—just push her back without even bothering with his weakened muscles. 

No, he thought before he could even try. He could not use such a thing against her. Never against her.

"And those eyes of yours?" She went on, uncaring that he did not want to _hear it_. "I was scared when you showed me, because... because I was still letting a dead man haunt the living. I let night terrors and bad memories take over until all I could see was him. I didn’t let myself see _you_. I let myself forget how much you meant to me. I let myself forget and I hurt you because of it.

"I know better now," she said, sounding so insistent that he wanted to believe her but there was nothing _to_ _believe_. "You inherited them from him, but they are _yours_ now. They belong to you, the _real_ you. Not Chill, of Emperor Frieza, of Prince Vegeta. Not D3-24455. Not boy or thing or monster. Just Chill—the one who loves to climb and eat rice porridge, and the one I call my friend. Just you."

He could feel her hand on his face then. He flinched at the touch, yet he could not pull away. The pads of her fingers ran slowly over his skin. The edge of her thumb brushed against the fabric of his blindfold.

"Those eyes are yours and yours alone," she told him, "and I'm sorry I hadn't realized it then. I'm sorry I ever allowed myself to be afraid of any part of you."

And just like that, he froze. He did not know what to do, what to think, what to feel. How could he possibly react to that? How could he just—just _accept_ those words?

He couldn't. He just couldn't.

He could feel her sigh against him, sounding almost disappointed. "You deserve so much. You are worthy of even more. Maybe one day, you'll understand"

He relaxed at that. There would be no more days beyond this one. He would die here, surely sometime this very hour. He would be crushed between rocks that have waited so long to send him to the other side.

He would not need to ponder on Neeila's words, would not need to let them sink down into his soul and taint everything he knew as truth.

Deserving... worthy... 

No greater lies had ever been told.

The fear of death had addled her mind, he told himself, because he knew Neeila would never intentionally lie to him. He would not disrespect the care she had for him—however misplaced it was—by naming her a liar. 

She was mistaken. She just had to be mistaken.

She allowed for a moment of silence then. Not one that was truly silent, mind, not with the world still raging on the other side of the stone cage. It seemed that Tene'mareen would never know true silence again.

He wondered what it all looked like. The end of the world must truly be a sight to behold. 

He would never know. If he looked, he would only see the darkness of his stone prison. Even more so, he had already promised, after seeing the beautifully forbidden sight of blonde hair and green eyes, he would never open his eyes again.

“This place is ugly, and dark, and cruel," she said, and he remembered that Neeila was never one to simply let silence be for long. He listened, though, because that is simply what he does. Never mind if he did not want to hear it, never mind that he would hardly ever say anything back; when Neeila gifted him with words, he hung off each one like a dying man would a lifeline. 

"It has swallowed my people whole and we will never be free of it, and that is because Frieza put us here," she said, and he could hear the way she struggled to not let the pain taint her voice. "He has sins against me, against my people, against my home. Sins that I will never forgive him for, not for as long as I live."

He could feel her eyes on him again, the gaze so heavy he was nearly crushed beneath it.

"Even so, because of him I have you, and I will always be grateful for that.”

The air stopped. Then his throat went tight. He should not believe her, not when she was already telling him so many lies but he... he...

“ _'In the darkness is where the light shines its brightest_ '. That's another saying we have," she said. He could hear the smile back in her voice. "It's the saying I think is most true of all. I _know_ it's true, because even in this ugly, cruel, dark place, there is light."

Her arms squeezed around him for a moment, then loosened. It was such an odd action. It was not like her grips of fear at all. Even he could see it was much different. Somehow, despite everything warring inside of him, the places where her arms touched his skin felt nice.

She said, "I've looked away sometimes, even closed my eyes once, but in my heart, I've always seen where the light was.”

He did not know what she meant by that. He did not think he would ever have a chance to figure out.

“I’m glad that I met you," she told him, her voice full of nothing but the truth. "Please, don't ever forget that.”

 _I'm glad I met you too,_ he wanted to say, should say, _had_ to say.

He said nothing.

* * *

Vegeta could not find him.

He had known he would not have so easily, even if he had not wished to acknowledge it. Acknowledged or not, though, it was true. He had no idea where the boy was.

In the areas he had searched that were populated—two towns, and one prison sector—there was complete chaos. Damaged remains of houses and buildings decorated the ground, and frantic, terrified people ran about like headless chickens. Where there was not chaos, there was nothing—only the bodies of those whose fate brought them where the destruction was the worst.

(He did not allow himself to think that the boy was already one of those bodies.)

He was not familiar enough with the planet to be able to tell where he was; every place looked the same as the last to him. The planet was too big. There could be billions of people here; there was no way he was going to find one small boy.

He liked to think that he would sense the boy when he was near, but the reality was that there was no guarantee that he would. He could fly right over the boy and not even know it. All he was doing now was wasting his time.

He tried to ignore the panic that was starting to climb up his spine. He was so close. He was so _close_. He couldn't fail now, not when he was so close...

Somehow, despite the haze the hysteria was beginning to paint over his eyes, Vegeta’s sight caught on a person down below. He was a guard, if his clothes were anything to go by, but he did not have the same stoic demeanor that the guards on Earth had. Though it was worth noting that his planet was falling apart beneath his feet, so perhaps he was entitled to a little unprofessionalism.

The man was relevant, however, because of the device in his hands that he was frantically tapping on. It was rectangular with a bright screen and Vegeta had no idea what it was, but he knew it was a _chance_.

Vegeta was on the man before he even had a chance to realize he was being targeted. Just as swiftly, he had a hold of the man’s shirt and flew back until he was slammed up against the nearest wall, rock surrounding where the fences did not cover. While the man recovered from his sudden daze, Vegeta snatched the device from his fingers.

He inspected it, but all he was met with was a series of symbols that he could not read. “What is this?” he demanded.

“You—You’re—" the man tried to speak, his eyes wide in recognition. It would seem that even after over ten years of inactivity, the Prince of all Saiyans was still a face to remember and fear.

“The device,” Vegeta interrupted, his words nearly a growl. “Tell me what it is. Now.”

“I—I, no,” the man said, the defiance worthy of his post beginning to return. “I’m not going to—"

Vegeta grabbed his stony wrist and squeezed.

The man howled and Vegeta tightened his grip even further. He squeezed until the man fell to his knees. He squeezed until he could feel the bones cracking against the callouses of his palm.

The man was really howling then, jerking back and forth as if he would ever possess the strength necessary to break free. Vegeta had thought that the guards of this planet had to be made of some thicker skin, if they were going to torture and terrorize people as their day job. Maybe he just got lucky and found a particularly pathetic one. 

“ _Tell me what it is_.”

“A tablet!” the man hollered. Vegeta sneered at the tears he saw beading at the corners of his eyes. Pathetic, indeed. “A Division-issued tablet! Every Division official is issued one.”

“Can it locate a specific person? A prisoner?” Vegeta asked near frantically, only belatedly remembering that this fool ought not see him act so panicked.

The guard did not even seem to notice. It also seemed that the ongoing pain in his shattered wrists compels him to keep being truthful. “Yes, it can locate any being who has been formally entered into the database after birth if they are a civilian or transferred if they are an inmate. To find a civilian would be harder, as they don’t wear—"

“Tell me where my son is.”

“You—you mean—you’re here for Chill?”

Vegeta's blood stopped cold.

Chill. His name was Chill.

He felt many things in that moment. At first, he felt astonishment, because that name was quite clearly an Ice-jin one. He could not quite wrap his head around why Frieza would give his illegitimate, half-breed spawn a name of his origin. That was almost as good as claiming him, was it not? Why would Frieza lay claim to a boy that, while sharing his blood, passed for saiyan in all other manners?

After the disbelief was the anger. How _dare_ Frieza name his son such a thing? It was not enough to steal the boy right from his arms, was it? No, he had to take him and make him his in every way he possibly could.

It must have been to spite Vegeta. Yes, he thought, that must be it. There was no other explanation.

Vegeta shoved the device into the man’s chest. He flexed his grip around his wrist in warning and the man whimpered. “Enter what you need to pin down his locator.”

“Okay, okay,” the man hastened to say, scrambling to begin typing with his good hand. He was slow, and Vegeta growled more than once—which Vegeta knew was pointless, for it really just made the man’s movements even slower in his fumbling fear—before eventually the man was handing the device back to him.

On the screen was a map. There were a few landmarks, but the focal point was one red dot, connected to a long yellow line, which in turn is connected to a pulsing blue dot.

The blue dot was the boy. Vegeta stared at it for a moment. He stared until he could feel the swelling of emotion begin to tighten his chest. He looked away.

“There,” the man said, “You’ve got his location. Now—”

Vegeta gathered his energy to his palm and raised his hand. A moment later, the top half of the man’s body was nothing but ash.

He breathed out a sudden, rough breath. He was shocked at himself. He hardly even realized his own intentions until the man was already dead.

 _That was unnecessary_ , he knew.

Even so, the heat of his blood pumping in his chest made no room for remorse. It had been so long since he had last taken a life simply for the sake of taking it. Years, surely.

He had nearly forgotten how good it felt.

Armed with his device, Vegeta took to the sky again.

* * *

It was sudden, how it all ended.

The moment came sometime after his ankle locater started to flash and burn. He barely had a second to think about the Warden trying to find him when the rocks began to tremble once more. It was different this time. Different, Chill thought, because it made him realize the graduality of it all, of each shift and rumble, how intense it grew with each and every wave. He noticed now how the stones beneath them nearly gave out, how the stones above them do away with their taunts from before. There was only a promise now.

It scared Neeila. She did not quite scream, but she did bury her head in his chest and wrap her arms tightly around his waist, as if anchoring her grip will save either of them from what was to come. Behind her, Herio clung to her as well, his tipped head so close Chill could feel his hair brushing his cheek.

The wave passed, but the tension stayed. There shall be no more waiting. Time has run out—

“Look!” she said, unnecessarily. Chill could not 'look' at anything and as for the others—eyes accustomed to darkness will always be drawn to light. Chill did not see it, the hole that had suddenly opened in the last wave underneath them, but he could feel it. He felt it, because like the light, those accustomed to stagnation will always notice change. He could feel the sudden gust of air flowing through, bringing life back to the air that had long gone static.

He could also feel the shift in the atmosphere—the shift of attitude, of sentiment, of emotion.

That was what happened, after all, when one found hope again.

The force of the others regained hope was so astounding he nearly buckled under it. Chill heard them clamber about, stretching their bodies through the space down to what might be freedom just as much as it could be a lethal drop. Chill did not know what to feel. He tried to feel nothing.

He was thankful for it, when their hope dimmed to disappointment—no, to utter devastation. The hole, apparently, was large enough at a glance to raise their spirits, but not large enough to deliver. None of them could fit.

He did not think on their shared despair, did not let it swallow him whole.

Neeila slumped back down next to him, and this time she was crying. He did not grab her hand, did not pat her back. He did nothing but she leaned against him, anyway, letting his shirt catch her tears.

“I don’t want to die,” she said with a voice so small and miserable against his shoulder. The words make his stomach twist and burn—anguished and so painfully beyond guilty all at once—in a way so badly that his eyes prick with tears, but still he said nothing.

The end did not come then, but he felt it. He could feel it in the way Neeila’s body suddenly stiffened, suddenly straightened. He could feel it in the way her tears suddenly ceased. He could feel it in the air, the _goodbye_ that was coming.

It was not the end that he expected. It was not the end that he prepared himself for.

It was an end that was so much worse.

“You’re smaller than me. I think you’ll fit,” she said.

Herio spoke where Chill is unable. “ _No_.”

“Why not?” she shot back.

“Because—because—" Herio floundered, but not because he was too perplexed to come up with an answer, but rather he was so angry that he could not get the words out. “Because that _thing_ doesn’t _deserve_ —"

“Yes,” the old man said.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Simply, the old man said, “There is no reason for all of us to die here."

Herio said something in response to that, and Neeila says something back. Chill heard, “This is your sister’s dying wish. Will you really deny her?” but even the words he caught mean nothing to him. Every single word flowed over him like water in a river, slipping through his fingers before he even got a chance to grasp them.

Neeila wanted him to leave, he managed to put together after a fashion. Leave _without_ her, he realized a moment after that.

Why? He did not understand. Why would she want such a thing? Why would she want him to live when she would die? What did she gain from that? What did _he_ gain from a life without her in it?

He had never thought of that before, he realized. Neeila had been there since the day Chill left the grand building and had never left. There were occasions, of course, when time would pass, and he would not see her. Their assignments were not always aligned, and more than once had they been loaned out to other Divisions when extra manpower was needed. Then of course, the time he had built the distance himself when he had frightened her. Aside from those times, whenever she was able, she was never far. Why wonder such a thing when she would always be there?

Perhaps he should have wondered, because now, with time running out and decisions he did not understand being made, he did not know what his life would be like without her.

He did not know, and he did not want to know. He did not want to live and leave her here to die.

“Chill,” he heard her voice, and he belatedly realized that he was pulling away from where she was gripping his arms. “Come on, there isn’t time.”

 _No_ , he thought. He wouldn’t do it.

She sighed, loud and heavy and sounding so very tired. Even so, he did not stop pulling away until she finally let him go. He knew her, though. He knew that she would not give up until she had gotten her way. 

Not this time, he thought. This time he would win, and he would stay where he was meant to be, and her side would not be empty when the true end comes.

Neeila was grabbing at a rock—Chill could feel her pulling it free from where it was trapped underneath the weight of his thigh—a small one, the perfect size to fit in her hand. Chill was confused, until he wasn’t, when the sound of the rock smashing into her face and her cry of pain was suddenly all his ears could hear.

He made a belated sound in protest, but it was drowned out by Herio’s distressed call of, “ _Neeila_!”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, her voice wet around her mouthful of blood, and Chill realized that the rock had not quite struck her face, but rather her mouth. “Got it... in one... shot, too.”

He heard her spit, heard her rub her hand against her shirt, then felt her hand press against his.

“It’s my tooth,” she said, and Chill could feel it, small and smooth, ever so slightly pointed.

_“You would take their tooth and never rid of it, because you could no longer have a future with that person..."_

“Don’t let it go,” she said, but he barely heard her. He fought her attempt to curl his fingers around the tooth, pushed it back into her possession. She took it away and in the next moment, her fingers were prying his lips open and before he could lock his jaw, she was shoving it inside, nestling it against his cheek.

_"... They were only a part of the past and it was a part that you could never forget.”_

“Chill,” he heard her say, her voice right in front of him. “Chill, please, you have to live. I need you to live.”

Suddenly, he felt angry. He felt betrayed. How could Neeila do this? How could she _do this_? Friend, she called him, _care_ , she said she felt for him, and yet she does this?

_"I’ll remind you just who exactly cares for you."_

He fought her, scratched and kicked at her like the beast he was. He did not register the scrapes his flailing arms gained from the rocks around him. He did not listen to her pleas, or her cries of pain when he hit her too hard. He kept hitting because she kept coming, kept trying to grab him and drag him away and he _won't let her_.

And then there were other sets of hands on him.

 _No,_ he thought, would scream it if he could. _No!_

It was futile. He was desperate—a wild, mad thing, but he was also weak. He could not fight them off.

“I wish things were different," he heard her say over the sound of his own snarling. "I wish I wasn’t brought here. I wish my home was still a place I could ever return to."

He felt their hands manipulating one leg, then the other through the hole. It was a tight fit, but not an impossible one.

"When everything got bad, I would think about going home. I know I can’t, I know there isn’t anything worth returning to by now, but I still would think about it," she said, sounding so desperate for him to hear her.

His hips slipped through easily enough, and while his shoulders were the widest part of his body, he could already tell that if the hands holding him let him go and he just lifted his arms the right way...

"Every time I would think about it, you’d be there with me.”

He was crying. Were friends supposed to make their friends cry?

 _"I will not forsake you_ , _"_ she had said.

 _You’re a liar, Neeila,_ he wanted to say _._

He tried to speak, to plead with her, but the words had been gone for so long and they would not return even now. He tried to scream but all he managed were croaks. He shook his head back and forth—it was all his so-called desperation could manage.

 _You’ve always been so weak,_ and he wondered whose voice he was hearing then. Perhaps every voice he had ever heard in his life.

“I wondered a lot of things," she said while his feet kicked uselessly in the open air. He was completely at their mercy now, and it was only so she could speak these final words that they continue to hold him. "I wondered what your hair would look like all clean and damp from rain. I wondered what you would look like in our clothes, and if your skin would still be so pale in the light of my sun. I wondered if the sun could make you glow too, even without crystals in your skin. I wondered if you would think the stars were as pretty as I did."

Her hands were on him, halting his motions. Her touch was so gentle, like there was something precious in her grasp and he did not _deserve_ it. He never deserved her, certainly didn’t deserve this chance at life. He deserved to die here, crushed under unforgiving stones until his bones broke and his breath gave out. He deserved this death because it was meant for him, never her, and now she will die wrapped up in his destruction and none of this was _right_ — 

"I'll never know. I'll never know any of those things and so much more," she said, and despite her gentleness, her touch was also firm, grounding, stubborn like the rest of her. "There are so many things I wish I could have shown you, so many things I wish we could’ve done together. But you'll experience it all. I know you will. I _feel_ it."

Then she leaned in close and pressed her lips to his cheek, so very close to the corner of his lips.

She had explained to him once before that kisses could mean several things. It could be a parent showing affection for their child; it could be friends expressing fondness for each other; it could be for those whose love melded their two lives into one.

Chill knew nothing of that kind of love, did not think she did either. He did feel her tenderness, the intimacy, the aching of her heart just as truly as he felt the wetness of her tears.

"This isn't goodbye Chill. I know we will meet again. In heaven, or the next life—wherever you believe, I will be there," Neeila said and he knew that they wouldn’t. When his time came, he would not go where she was going. He would never see her again.

_All you’ve ever done is lie to me._

The hands beneath him lifted his arms up and he tried the last thing he could think of. He needed her to know what monster she was trying to save. Maybe it would remind her why he must stay.

He bent his arm and pulled the blindfold off.

Herio hissed, but Chill did not hear it. He heard nothing, only saw. His view was limited—he did not see the stones trembling around them, or the way Herio turned away or the way the old man’s jaw tightened. He only saw her, visible because the light coming from the cracks and openings in the rocks above allowed it. He saw her pale, gaunt face smudged with dirt and tears and the blood that trailed from the cut on her temple and from her mouth. He saw her blonde hair, far stringier than he remembered. He saw her bright green eyes staring back at him.

He saw her smile. It was small, just the slightest creases at the corners of her lips. It was gentle, and all for him.

“Just like I thought,” she said. “All I see is you.”

The rocks above fell in time with the pearls of new tears falling from her eyes.

The hands let him go, but he still heard her screaming and screaming and screaming.

He fell and fell and fell.

TBC


	19. The Fall

Chapter Eighteen: _The Fall_

The first time Chill ever fell, he had thought he was going to die.

He had been very young then, still living in the grand building. He had been assisting in the kitchens that day, and a cook had ordered him to retrieve a pot from a tall cabinet. It had been nothing new—Chill had climbed onto that counter a hundred times before. He had liked it even, being given such a task. Climbing the counter was fun, and it made him feel very adult to reach a place that should have been too high for him.

Something went wrong that day, though. His foot could have caught on his pant leg or perhaps the counter had been wet—the memory would not say. All he knew for certain was that right after he had grabbed the pot, he had pitched over and fallen.

The fall, in retrospect, could not have been more than three feet, but it was nonetheless a bad one. He had landed on his arm and heard it crunch in that split second before his head smacked against the ground.

He had felt odd after that. The pain in his head was fierce and heavy, like there was some type of pressure squeezing on his brain. He had felt dizzy when he was yanked to his feet, and so sick to his stomach that he had vomited all over his boots.

That was the first time he had ever feared for his own life. 

He had agonized over it, cried and sobbed all the way down to the Healer’s Sector. He had begged and pleaded not to go, already familiar with stories of prisoners passing through those doors and never returning. In the same breath, he begged for someone, anyone, to fix the break in his brain before that killed him instead.

Naturally, he had finally been assured that he would not die. He had felt the sweet kind of relief that could only be born in the aftermath of true terror. 

And he _had_ been—terrified, that was, beyond belief. The first time he fell was also the first time he had felt true fear.

He did not feel it now.

It was a long fall, much longer than the countertop had been. There was the force of wind this time, for one thing, whipping against his face and pulling his skin taut against his bones. The falling made his stomach drop deep into his gut, and his heart pump madly.

Still, there was no fear.

It reminded Chill of Earth. He was reminded of that moment in the forest, where the air was wet and the animals were loud, and he had fallen out of the tree. There were differences, of course. This time, air that was hot instead of cool slapped against his skin, rushing through his hair and clothes. This time, the small mercy of grass and dirt would now only be the unforgiving might of rock and stone.

He was not sure how long he had been falling; it felt like forever. He wondered if the drop was too high—there was no other way to explain the length of time. He wondered if Neeila’s efforts were pointless, if his body would simply hit the ground and shatter; every bone ruined beyond recognition; broken shards piercing his lungs, his heart—wherever was fatal. Gravity was not forgiving, no matter what Neeila wanted.

Abruptly, he hit the ground.

Though it was not really the ground. It was slanted, whatever it was, more like a hill. The second his feet planted, his body over-balanced and he was falling back one more. Only this time instead of a free fall, it was an amalgam of stone and gravity.

It seemed like everything was happening all at once. He could not tell up from down, not with how fast his body was moving, scrapping brutally against the sharp rocks of the cliffside as he rolled down it. On and on it went, and once again he wondered if it would ever end.

Eventually, it did end. He knew simply by the way he landed that he had finally reached stable ground. He continued to roll a few more times, not even bothering to fight the last bits of momentum still controlling his body. He was motionless for not even a few seconds when his ears, despite the impossible spinning of his head, were assaulted with the deafening _crunch_ above him.

The congregation of rocks from which he had just been delivered had finally come undone.

His body was fleeing before he could even command it too. He could hear the rocks banging loudly as they crashed down the same hill he himself had just endured. Each crash filled his ears until he was sure he would hear nothing else ever again. Their hollering took over his mind, deafening him with their promises.

They were coming for him, they said. They would get him, they said.

 _Run_ , he thought. _Live_.

He kept moving until he could no longer hear the ominous words. By the time he stopped, his mind was clear again, and the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins left him just as quickly as it came. He curled in on himself, feeling the pain then. His skin was scraped, and his bones were rattled from the hillside. His brain was pounding against the back of his skull where it must have hit the ground. He only then realized that his escape had not been a run, but rather a hasty crawl. His scraped palms, profusely bleeding knees, and certainly broken feet were a testament to that.

His body slumped forward as if it were boneless. He took in deep ragged breaths, but still felt as if he were getting no air at all. He felt nauseous, his head spinning as he nearly succumbed to his fatigue. 

He quite wanted too. Nothing sounded better than letting himself drift off into unconsciousness. He found that awareness was a lot more trouble than it was worth. If he was asleep, he would not have to worry about the dizziness he felt despite remaining motionless. He would not have to worry about whether or not he could breathe, either. Perhaps if he were lucky, he would sleep and never wake up again.

 _Neeila_.

Her name was like a bucket of cold water. He jolted up and strained his ears to hear past the loud ringing that currently consumed them. He strained them to hear anything at all.

He heard nothing. Only the distant, miles away cries of anguish belonging to those who meant nothing to him.

He turned back towards the way he had come. His legs refused to move, though his arms still obeyed him. It was taxing work, pulling his weight on such feeble and bruised limbs. Every move had him near blacking out, but he could not stop. He refused to stop. He had to find her. He had to find her because maybe somehow, someway, she was still there, still breathing under the stones that had tried to claim her. Perhaps he was her only hope of survival. Perhaps she was waiting for him, clinging to the thinnest threads of life until he came to pull her free.

Chill knew how to find her, too. Even now, without physical touch, he could feel her. He felt her presence, deep within him. Her presence was strong—it had to be. How else would it have managed to keep together what long should have been broken within him?

Her presence guided him over the rocks that had once been a powerful, daunting cliff, but now embellished the ground in a stone garden. She led him until he was right above her. She gave him strength while he pushed aside the rocks that crushed her with his arms and Mind Power. He could smell her, then. Dirty, like the rest of them, but underneath was a subtle, unique scent. It was like the trees on Earth, or the freshness of air. It was something all her own.

Then he truly felt her. A hand, he found. A hand so broken it hardly was a hand at all anymore.

No pulse beat against the fingertips holding her wrist.

For the second time that day, he broke his vow. He pulled up his blindfold, forcing the tight fabric up until it bunched on his forehead. He knew he shouldn’t; he knew he was not allowed, but he just did not care. He had to see her, or it would not be real.

He saw just what he had expected to see. A hand misshapen nearly beyond recognition. Five fingers that bent in ways they never should. Blood that covered every inch of what should have been pale skin. A snapped wrist that held no life—not even the smallest flutter.

A lump formed in his throat. Hopelessness filled his center. He had never felt so sick.

 _Neeila._ He shook her wrist, willing life back into it. _Neeila._

His lip trembled. His vision blurred. Whimpers spilled from his throat.

_Neeila, come back!_

Hot tears dripped down his cheeks, though neither the lump in his throat nor the weight in his chest lessened. He had never felt this way before. It was painful; more so than broken bones or torn skin ever had.

_Please, come back, make it better. Make it go away!_

He pressed frantic kisses against her hand, trying with all his might to mimic the fire she had invoked in him through his lips. All he tasted was blood.

His chest heaved as he let out a sob. Tears soaking his cheeks without end. He tried to speak, but all that came out was nonsensical whines. He wanted her. He wanted to see her smile; hear her laugh; feel her unbroken hand against his cheek. He wanted her to feed him; to carry him on her back; to tell him it was okay. It was okay because she was _there_ and always would be.

 _Please,_ he begged. _Don’t leave me here. I don’t want to be alone._

His pleads were for nothing. She could not hear him anymore. She was not Neeila anymore. She was nothing more than a lump of broken and dead flesh.

Still, he held onto that dead flesh. He curled his fingers tightly through the lifeless ones and cuddled the hand against his face. He would hold onto these remains. He would hold onto it until he was dead flesh himself. There was no other place for him but here, protecting her until he joined her. It was only a matter of waiting now. 

" _What do you hate most about this place?_ " she had asked once.

 _Everything_ , he should have said, and would never have the chance to say again.

_Everything but you._

* * *

The search was taking Goku far too long.

He had collected three of the dragon balls so far and was near the fourth. He probably would have had them all by now if the radar were working as accurately as it usually would. At first, he had thought that perhaps it was broken, but he could not imagine Bulma lending him any sort of faulty device, particularly for a mission as crucial as this one.

He realized eventually that it was the world itself that was tampering with the radar. There was too much chaotic energy for the... what was the word? 'Electromagnetic'. There was too much chaotic energy for the electromagnetic pulses to be more accurate in their findings. He could at most narrow the findings down to about a one-mile radius—not at all convenient for a man working against the clock.

Sometimes it was easy to find the balls. Its bright orange color often shone like a beacon against the dreary background of the rest of the landscape, but that was only if it was lying out in the open like the seven-star ball had been. If the ball was hidden underneath rocks and stones, or otherwise placed where his spot in the sky held no advantage, then the searching process took much longer. For the other two, he had had to dig and crawl, trying his best to pinpoint where their energy was directing him.

It was taking far too long. He needed to move faster. He could feel each second of the clock ticking further and further past. Just as he could feel the energy of the balls, he could feel the energy of the planet. It was a very ugly energy, twisted and dark and growing in its chaos. 

The inhabitants were feeling it as well. During his search he had passed over countless towns, full of buildings demolished by crumbling cliffsides and harsh quakes in the ground. He saw the people themselves running frantically in the wreckage, screaming from the pain of wounds and the weight of fear alike. He had seen some people—slightly more composed but only just—piling into large spacecrafts, assumedly for evacuation.

They would need to move faster, the natives as well as Vegeta and himself, he thought. The planet's life force was being pushed to its limit. It was only a matter of time before it snapped, and this entire celestial rock and everything one it was reduced to nothing but dust floating through space.

He shook those grim thoughts from his head as he dropped out of the sky. That manner of thinking was not going to make the balls any easier to find or give him more time.

The ground his feet touched down onto was shaking like the aftershocks of an earthquake, but he did not let it deter him. He steadied himself as he stuffed the radar back into the safety of his pocket and set out on his search. Luckily, there were not too many places the ball could be hiding in this particular location—only two large piles of stone that had once made up a clifftop served as potential hiding spots.

The first pile he checked turned up nothing but pebbles and dirt. The second pile was the jackpot—he only had to move two rocks before his eyes caught onto the familiar bright orange color. He did not fight the relieved smile that crept onto his face as he stuffed the one-star ball into his bag alongside its brothers. Only three more and then Goku could find Vegeta, who hopefully would have found his son by now—

“ _Help_!”

Goku froze. He whipped his head around and saw a woman sprinting towards him. She was like the other Tenas with brown hair and rock for skin. She was wearing a navy outfit, and it took him a moment to recognize it as the same uniform that the guards who had come to Earth were wearing.

He thought he should be angry at the sight of it, and part of him was, but mostly he was distracted by how she was barreling towards him like she’s got fire on her heels and he was a pail of water.

He saw the look in her eyes, the muted horrified and undercover of urgency, and thought that maybe he was.

She skids to a stop in front of him, her momentum nearly sending her toppling into him. She was surprisingly tall—Goku hasn’t been eye to eye with a woman since he had met that deity at Mount Five Elements so many years ago. It was a bit jarring, and in the face of her distress, he was not sure what to say, “Uh—”

“My children,” she said, answering what probably should have been his question. “They are trapped. Under boulders. I saw you move those ones,” she gestured to the pile of displaced rocks behind him. “You are strong. You _must_ help me.”

Goku hesitated.

Her face cracked. Not literally, but her hard expression did fall. Her stoicism crumbled away like sawdust, and it was only once the mask had fallen that he realized one was even there in the first place. Her face hid nothing now. It showed the fear, the desperation she felt without a hint of shame.

Her outfit betrayed her, but without it, Goku would not have thought she was a guard. She did not look like the ones he had seen before, the ones who marched together in federation on his planet like their hate and their cruelty belonged there. She did not look like the ones who had led children along in chains, who saw their wounds and their bruises, listened to their stomachs growl and did nothing to help them all for the sake of following orders. She did not look like someone who would watch children suffer and justify it by calling it a difference of morals, by saying it was something that just had to be _accepted_.

But she _was_ that person. There was no difference between her and the others. She _could_ have been one of the guards from before for all he knew, blending into the group of complacent monsters like another piece of the puzzle.

But that was not what Goku saw. He did not see one cog, but a single machine. He saw her face, open and vulnerable with nothing to shield her. He saw her eyes—a deep green color, one with the sclera stained red from a broken blood vessel. Both were filled with tears that were not quite spilling over but were plentiful enough that the cracked corners of her eyes were tinged a darker shade of grey where the moisture had touched them.

She looked familiar, and he realized that she looked like Chi-Chi. He remembered that look on his wife’s face, after the saiyans attacked and she had arrived to a battlefield she never wanted her son to be on and was met with his tiny body wrecked in a way no child should ever experience. 

This woman looked like she had seen her children in a state no person ever should. 

This woman looked like a mother.

“ _Please_!” she said, and Goku followed her, because it is what he does. He forgives those who do the unforgivable and helps those who don’t deserve mercy. Even so, in this moment, he did not begrudge his nature. How could Goku deny someone who so badly needed him?

The fire at her heels had turned into the Devil himself. Goku found he almost had trouble keeping up with her. She paid no mind to how he lagged, nor did she seem deterred by the endless quaking of the ground beneath them. She focused only on getting back to her kids.

She stopped so suddenly that Goku didn’t have time to stop himself before he rammed into the back of her. She stumbled, and Goku grabbed the crook of her elbow before she could fall. His mouth was opening, ready to apologize, but she was already shrugging him off and dropping down to her knees before he got the chance. 

She scooted closer to the pile of rocks before her. The boulders weren’t much taller than himself, and he realized that the ground must have caved in. He realized also, with a clench to his chest, that there were little sobs coming from the pile.

The woman dropped her face down close to the small opening between the rocks. “Sazio, Choca!” she shouted down. “I am here. You will be free in a moment, I promise!”

Goku dropped down to his knees, nudging the woman aside as he scooted closer. The hole was small, but large enough that he could see two terrified, tiny faces peering back at him. One boy and one girl, he thought, if their hair lengths were anything to go by (however, he had been wrong before), both with watery eyes the same green as their mother’s. Beside them he noticed a longer, fuller body of a man dressed in clothes that look more like the tunic and leggings the children were wearing, as opposed to the woman’s uniform.

Bile tickled at the back of his throat when he saw that the man’s skull was completely crushed underneath a rock.

The bomb’s clock was still ticking, so he tucked the sight far inside the back of his head. Instead, he inspected the rocks, how steady they were and which ones he would need to move.

It would not be easy, he decided. The problem was not his strength (he certainly had more than enough of that) but rather an issue of timing. If he moved the wrong rock at the wrong time, the others surrounding it could become unsettled and fall onto the children. 

Of course, he was fast enough to move the kids if that became the case, however he had since learned that it was not always in the best interest of those far weaker than him to be moved at the same rates he could handle. Once, he had tried flying with Chi-Chi at super saiyan speed and nearly given her whiplash. Since then, he’s decided that using that kind of power with other people should be a last resort.

He looked down at their wet, frightened faces. Immediately their eyes latched onto him, terrified and trusting, and he faltered.

He remembers the first time Gohan came to him for protection. Gohan had been very young at the time and had only just begun to sleep in his own bedroom. Goku had woken in the middle of the night to a teary-faced toddler clinging to him, telling desperate tales of a monster that was trying to eat him alive. Several moments after, when Gohan was fast asleep in his usual spot between them, he had asked Chi-Chi why Gohan came running to them in the first place.

_Didn’t you ever have nightmares as a child?_

He had of course, but he always took nightmares as a challenge. Why would he want his grandfather to fight the monsters away when he could train and become stronger and defeat them himself?

 _Well, most children aren’t quite so courageous as you, Goku,_ she had said. _Most kids are scared easily, and it’s our job as adults to fight their fears away._

It had taken him a while to wrap his head around what she told him, but he thought he understood now.

Still, looking down at these kids, it was a bit daunting. By the time the monsters became a reality, Gohan was independent enough to take care of himself, and if Goten was still scared by nightmares, he never felt the need to share that with him.

Goku never had to fight away nightmares that were this real.

He put on what he hoped was a comforting smile and said, “Hi, my name is Goku. What are your names?”

The one that looked like a boy sniffled a couple times before responding, “Sazio.”

The girl, who must be Choca, did not respond at all, staring at him with almost eerily blank eyes. She did, however, stop heaving, and Goku considered that a win.

“Sazio. That’s an interesting name. I don’t think we have names like that on Earth,” he said as he carefully lifted one rock and set it aside. It was louder than intended when he set it down, like a piano falling from a crane. The girl stiffened and the boy whimpered, and Goku hastened to add, “I have two sons named Gohan and Goten. Gohan is named after my grandfather. I didn’t name Goten, but I still think his name is pretty cool too. I think Goten might be the same age as you two. How old are y’all?”

“We are six,” Sazio said as he rubbed at the snot under his nose.

“Same age?” Goku asked while moving aside another rock. The boy nodded. “Are you two twins, then?”

“Yea—"

“Papa is dead,” the girl said, and the suddenness of her voice shocked him to the point that he nearly lost his grip on the rock he was holding. Now that Goku looked, he could see her tiny hands clutched around a larger, lifeless one.

Goku didn’t know what to say to that, but the girl continued on now that the gates were open, and her flood of words could flow freely. “He’s dead and won’t get up. We can’t leave him here. We have to bury him so his soul can pass on.”

Goku said nothing but the girl seemed unbothered. She went on about the afterlife and a burial site next to a grandmother so they can visit him, and you’ll get him out right? You don’t want Papa to be lonely, do you?

Goku focused on the rocks. There was only one left now. All he had to do was move it just right...

He barely touched it, yet it made an ominous crunching sound against the others pressed against it. The rocks began to shift and Goku wasted no more time. He tossed it aside, so hard it cracked the ground where it landed. He did not give the other rocks a chance to overbalance before he reached down, grabbed two little shirt collars, and hoisted them out of the hole.

Panic nearly consumed him when their clothing was suddenly ripped from his hands. Thankfully, though, the children have not fallen back into the hole, but instead were now wrapped up in the arms of their mother.

“We can’t leave Papa!” he heard the girl say against her mother’s shoulder.

“I could—” Goku began but the woman was already running away. Goku watched them until he could no longer see her, until the last echoes of the little girl’s wailings died out.

Goku looked back at where the father’s body lied and realized he could no longer see it. The rocks had fallen and closed the opening.

How much more time did that broken family have left, he wondered. Would they make it too wherever they were running too? Would some other danger he would not be there to save them from be their end? Or would they go when finally, the planet had endured all it could and destroyed itself?

It was pointless. What use was saving children that were going to die anyway?

 _Because I can’t stand back and do nothing when someone needs me,_ was what he wanted to say, but that was what he was doing, was it not? All he had done was give that woman hope she had no business having.

 _I could save them_ , he thought, _they couldn’t have gotten too far. I could bring them back with us._

Sure, he could save what remained of that little family, but what about the other families? What about the other daughters and sons and mothers and fathers whose skulls hadn’t yet been crushed in? Could he waste every precious second he had to find the balls that were destroying this place to save one little family, as if that could in any way make up for the billions of lives that he would not save?

Goku did not know what to do.

People always spoke in awe of his pure heart, like it was a good thing. It rarely dawned on him that it might not always be.

What would Vegeta feel right now?

Probably nothing. Vegeta would never have even stopped to help the woman; would’ve sneered in her face in all likelihood. Or maybe Vegeta would not have done something so terrible, but even so, Goku knew that the emotions he was feeling right now were not ones Vegeta would be feeling.

Times like these make Goku wish he could be more... detached? He did not want to feel sympathy for a planet full of torturers. He did not want to be so plagued by little faces that may not survive because the choices their leader made and the choices Goku _wasn't_ making. 

He did not want to see those small children and see his own small son within them. He did not want to see those children with a mother who would so clearly fight to her last breath to protect them, and think about how his own sons were cursed with a father that had more than once not put their lives above all else.

He swallowed hard against the lump that formed in his throat and the weight that suddenly sat on his chest. Now was not the time to think about his failures in parenting, not when the planet had no qualms about exploding around him.

He floated back into the air and pulled out the radar. His stomach sunk when he saw that the final three balls were all in different corners of the planet. Stressing over it would not make them any closer, though, so with no further delay, he flew off toward the southern part of the planet. 

As the wind whipped against his face and through his golden spikes, he tried to think of nothing at all.

TBC


	20. The Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence and non-graphic RAPE of a child.*

Chapter Nineteen: _The Monster_

**_The Past:_ **

_He shivered and turned away as Frieza’s blood red eyes stared back at him._

The child's eyes were the same as _his_ , and Vegeta did not know why he expected anything different. Of course Frieza's spawn would have his demon eyes, that pierced through him like his body was paper and the gaze a scorching knife. The same cold stare, the same malicious shade, the same damning red as Frieza’s.

Disgust roiled through Vegeta, absolute revolution nearly consumed him. _I made this_ , went his thoughts like whirlwinds through the clouds of loathing and rage in his mind, _my blood flows through this abomination’s veins_.

 _End it,_ he thought, and he nearly did. It would be easy enough. The creature was so small and frail, all he would need to do was push the cradle until it tipped, add enough force that the impact would be fatal...

He took a breath. He took another and let as much of the rage and disgust flow along the river of air slipping past his lips as he could. Then, when something almost resembling calm had outweighed everything else, he looked again.

The creature’s eyes were closed momentarily while it wailed, but they eventually open once more. The color was red, there was no doubt, two red spheres nearly glowing where the light from the ceiling had caught onto the wetness of his tears. They were the exact same shade as well; he was certain of that also. Vegeta had never thought he was so intimately aware of just what Frieza’s eyes looked like, but when met with their twins he could not deny they were a mirror image.

And yet, they were different.

Where he once thought there was a cold gaze, was instead a mildly unhappy one. Where once was a malicious shade, was instead an almost gentle hue. Where once was a damning color, was instead simply... red.

Of course, Vegeta acknowledged, the thing was still an infant—the eyes were certainly subject to change. For now, though, these were not the eyes of a tyrant. There was nothing at all unsettling about the eyes before him, and he immediately felt ridiculous for reacting so violently. Had Frieza conditioned his fear so well that he would cower from an infant’s eyes? Never in his life did he expect himself to be so _pathetic_.

Not at all interested in the shame that began to rise inside of him, he banished the thought. Instead, he leaned further over the cradle. All this time, the infant was still crying, the choked off wails growing to an intensity that had long surpassed the threshold his sensitive ears could withstand.

“Quiet,” he snarled at it.

The response was more wailing.

Initially, he planned to wait. Surely a doctor would have noticed he was awake by now and come to take the thing away. Yet several moments passed and no one came. Vegeta was not a patient man, and neither, it seemed, was this creature.

Before he could think to do otherwise, Vegeta leaned over the cradle and stuck his hands in. He fit them around its tiny body—off-handedly remembering to put one underneath its head—and lifted it out of the cradle. It was so light he nearly could not feel it. The blanket slipped and he could see that it was male.

The crying dimmed somewhat. The creature’s eyes fixed on him, though Vegeta was sure that its sight was too underdeveloped to actually see anything. Still the message was clear _—you have my attention, and you better figure out how to keep it._

Vegeta's response to that was to frown.

So. This was the parasite that had been fermenting inside him all those months.

Vegeta tried to think back to everything he knew about infants. He could not remember the last time he had even seen an infant; he had never even held one until this moment. The baby did not smell particularly bad, so it probably had not soiled itself (not that he even knew what to do about it if it had), and the room was neither hot nor cold so general discomfort was unlikely.

The only, and most obvious explanation was that the thing must be hungry. There was only one way to feed it and the idea was so appalling he nearly dropped the thing back in the cradle.

The revival of the infernal crying had him ripping his flimsy shirt open. Before he could be properly repulsed by his actions, he brought the infant up towards his exposed, swollen nipple.

The creature sucked so hard it nearly hurt, gnawing with all the strength his little gums possessed, trying its best to get the food it had clearly been denied for too long. Vegeta grit his teeth around the strange and unnatural sensation but did not pull it away. Instead, he watched it.

It was a bit difficult to wrap his mind around the fact that this was the thing that had been inside of him. He did not think he had ever, in all that time, thought of it as _not_ a parasite. Logically, he knew that that was not true—the creature inside of him was not actually a leech, not something cancerous and verminous no matter how much it was not a part of him—but he did not see it that way until now.

Perhaps he refused to see it as anything other than a parasite because he figured it would be dead by now.

But it was not dead, and it was undeniably a baby that he was looking at. Not just any baby, he realizes with growing horror, one that _looked_ like him.

There was no point in trying to tell himself otherwise. It was not Frieza who gave the infant its wild spikes of dark hair, or the flesh tone of his skin, or the point of his tiny nose, or even the sharpness of his eyebrows. The nails and the eyes and perhaps the strange lines on its cheeks were from Frieza, but everything else...

Everything else was him. Everything else was him because it was _his_.

Vegeta had a _child_.

That thought... he did not know what to do with that thought.

_A child that only exists because Frieza violated you in the most humiliating, debasing ways. A child that shares his blood just as much as he shares yours._

He knew exactly how _that_ thought made him feel, and he pushed it away. For now.

When the creature eventually stopped suckling, he pulled it back to stare at it once more. It stared back at him—or more accurately, looked in his general direction with its tiny red eyes. Everything about it was tiny; its body was barely larger than his two hands put together. Vegeta wondered if it was normal for infants to be this small.

He didn’t know a lot of things about children. He never bothered to ask, never even considered that he might ever have one. What did people even _do_ with these things? 

He tried to think back on his own childhood. His mother—a true warrior queen through and through—had died before he ever had a chance to know her, and Tarble’s mother—a pathetically weak concubine with the defining quality of a pretty face—had never bothered to fill the void. He thought of his father, who had been a surprisingly familiar face given his role as a planetary king, but after nearly four decades, most of Vegeta’s memories consisted of little more than stoic eyes and the sound of a deep, stern voice.

Feed them, he supposed. Train them so they didn't get themselves killed. He could not imagine much beyond that.

Not that he needed to know either way, he thought, as he kicked the cradle aside and out of his way. He holds his arms out, raising the baby up and away from him like an offering. It would not be so simple as letting his grip go slack; its body was pathetically small but there _was_ still saiyan blood inside of it, after all. No, he would need to use force. He would need to ensure that it hit the ground hard enough that it would not come back from the blow.

He would do it because Vegeta had no need for it. To keep it had never been an option, and it would not become one now even if he wanted too. And he didn’t. Vegeta was a warrior, a conqueror, perhaps even the future emperor of the universe if he wished. He was not a broodmare. He would not play mother to the spawn of the bastard he had sworn to annihilate.

He would do it and be done with it.

He would.

He would.

He would.

Minutes passed, and he did not.

After a while, he pulled his arms back in.

Vegeta wondered if he struggled because he had never truly killed an infant. He was sure that he had probably killed hundreds indirectly, but never purposely. He was simply never presented with the opportunity to do so. He had cut down more than enough women who clutched their squalling babes in their arms as if he had come all the way across the galaxy solely to snatch away their child from them. Once the women were dead, though, he had never seen a reason to bother with infants that would undoubtedly die on their own.

Were these... morals? How utterly nonsensical it would be if it were. After all, he had no issues slaying children. Where exactly was the line drawn by that logic? If it could not speak in complete sentences it was off-limits?

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous as it was, Vegeta was still no more eager to end the pitiable thing’s life.

What other options were there? Let it live? And what would he do then: wipe its ass and feed it from his teats like a cow? Spend his nights and days tending to it when he could be training and getting stronger?

It would be just as much a parasite outside his body as it had been within it. 

And all of this was based on the assumption that he even _could_ keep it on the ship, a ship full of soldiers who would mock him and jeer at just how far the saiyan race had fallen that their prince was now bearing sons for Frieza—

Vegeta did not want that.

He also did not want it to die by his hand.

The only other option was to send it away, but it was _not_ an option at all. Where would he send it? Was he supposed to just sneak off to the nearest planet—all of which, if he remembered their coordinates correctly, were travel ports and thrill-seeking hubs—drop it somewhere in the streets, and consider it a job well done? Acknowledging the possibility of it being picked up by someone set on making its life one so awful it was not worth living, how was that any better than just killing it here and now?

What to do. What to do...

He held it for now. When it started to fuss again, he scratched lightly behind its ear. Distantly, he remembered his father doing this to him. It was so long ago he did not even remember what it felt like. The creature seemed contented by it, though. Its furless tail wiggled in the air for a moment before it wrapped tightly around Vegeta’s wrist.

By now, word would have reached Frieza. What would that bastard do? Kill it, probably. He had no more use for the thing than Vegeta did. Perhaps that was the best option. There was no life for the creature either with him or away from him. At least then, it would find peace in death and Vegeta would not have to add filicide to his record of dastardly misdeeds.

He wondered, oddly enough, what his own father would think. He would probably be so utterly disgusted, might even try to slay Vegeta himself to cleanse the dishonor. Not that he had ever thought his father’s love for him to be a fickle thing, but the King had always held the air of a man invariably prepared to do what needed to be done, and having the crown prince be made into their enslaver's bitch simply would not stand.

Still, some deep, childish part of him wished the man were here. He wished that anyone was here. There were very few times when he desired Nappa’s company—and where _was_ that oaf?—but he could use his overwhelmingly loyal presence right now. He would even take Raditz, who was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend, even if the thought of explaining just _why_ he was here in the first place made him want to curl up and never unravel.

But there was no one. He was alone.

Not quite alone, he supposed. He had this creature that he did not want. He wondered what it would be like if he _did_ want it, if he could allow himself to even consider such a desire. He wondered what it would be like if there were no mocking faces waiting for him beyond this room, if there were no protocols about room capacities and the types of persons allowed to live on Frieza’s bases, if there was no one waiting to snatch the thing away from him.

It might have been interesting, raising a son. Perhaps it would have been just enough his own that Vegeta could forget it was Frieza’s as well. He could have raised it in his likelihood, until everything that was Frieza was gone and all that remained was what Vegeta's blood had brought into the world.

He stroked a thumb across one of the baby’s cheeks. It was smooth and soft, even where the dark line stained the pale color. It would have been nice to find out, he thought.

“I truly have never seen a more beautiful sight.”

Vegeta’s eyes fell closed. He had not realized just how light he had felt inside until the emotion suddenly soured like curdled milk.

“Vegeta,” he said as the door slid closed with a _whoosh_ , the tone sweet and ugly all at once. “You, sly, sneaky dog. How did you ever manage to hide this from me?”

The sound of footsteps came next, drawing ever closer with each tap on the floor. Vegeta wondered if it meant something that he came on foot instead of in that levitating chair of his.

“Well, let me see it then.”

Vegeta did not move, but the bastard seemed to get an eyeful anyway.

“He is quite the monkey looking thing, isn’t he?” Frieza said, tsk tsking. 

Vegeta’s eyes were still closed, but he could sense the arms suddenly reaching towards him. His body jerked back before he could tell it not too.

“My, my, Vegeta," he chastised, having the gall to sound _amused_. "Don’t you think a father has a right to hold his own child?”

He felt Frieza’s hands creeping forward again. 

Suddenly, surely out of nowhere, he thought, _No. Get away,_ and he does it himself, leaping up from the bed and breaking into a sprint.

The door was ahead of him, _right_ in front of him when Frieza appeared and blocked the path, materializing before him like a demon summoned from Hell.

“Going somewhere?” he thought he heard but Vegeta was already skidding to a halt and spinning on his heel to run the other way. 

_Get away,_ he thought, even though there was nothing but grey walls in front of him. _Get away,_ he thought even though every part of him knew it was futile.

 _Get away,_ he thought, but he abruptly could not, because a searing pain at the base of his spine brought him to his knees. He had long since trained the hypersensitivity out of his tail, but the nerve endings would always be just the slightest bit more tender than anywhere else. 

Not that it mattered. Frieza did not need to exploit such a weakness to take him down.

“Oh, look, now he’s crying,” Frieza said. Vegeta could hear it, the wailing coming from the baby still tucked in his arms. The noise of it seems to come from somewhere off in the distance, drowned out by the snapping of his tail’s bones underneath Frieza’s boot. “A mother shouldn't make her children cry, Vegeta.”

Frieza leaned forward—Vegeta could feel it in the way his weight shifted on his broken tail bones. He could feel the bastard, the complete and utter _monster_ growing nearer, and he could not protect it, not when his limbs had already begun to go numb.

The baby was taken from his arms, and they do not even feel the loss.

Vegeta _could_ feel it though, like something deep in his chest was suddenly ripped away. He tried to follow after them, he truly did, but the pain had spread throughout his whole body and the weight of it was nearly too much to bear. Inches were suddenly miles and he _couldn’t do it_.

“No!” he heard himself say. “ _No_!”

Why was this happening? He had enough sense inside of him to wonder. Why had he felt the need to fight against what was already inevitable? Why did the emptiness of his arms feel so wrong? Why was this hurting him so badly?

He did not know. He did know that the sight of his baby in Frieza's arms was wrong. Every second that the distance between them grew was wrong. All of this was _wrong_.

Yet, he could do nothing. The baby continued to cry, but not even the awful sound of it was enough to fix his paralyzed muscles or bring life back into his bones. Black crept along the edges of his vision, and it took everything in him to fight against the darkness that threatened to drag him under.

“ _Please_!” he begged, when Frieza nearly crossed over the threshold of the door.

_He's mine... He's mine..._

The bastard only laughed, a few short twitters that go almost unheard against the piercing wails and the ringing in Vegeta's ears.

“You fret so needlessly, Vegeta. Surely you haven't gotten attached that quickly." He looked back with a sly smile, his red eyes sparkling with amusement. “I'll be taking this one. If it means that much to you, though, I'd be glad to put another in you."

Then he was gone. They both were gone.

And that was all that love ever did. It came and it went and made you wonder why it ever bothered to come in the first place. He never should have forgotten that.

 _Never again_ , he thought. _Never again_.

Despite his resolve, the pain had already come. It had sunk down deep, so far down he could not claw it out without tearing something within himself, something vital to the man that he was, something he could never repair.

Above him, the ceiling faded away to nothing. The faint scent of antiseptic cleared from his nose until there was nothing to smell. His skin, his muscles, everything that should feel suddenly didn't. Every sound faded away until all he could hear was the color white.

Yet, his emotions still raged. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair from his scalp. He wanted to rage until everything around him had succumbed to his wrath. He wanted to cry and beg and possibly even die. He wanted the pain to end.

 _Forget it all._ He told himself. _It can't hurt if it never happened._

He told himself that over and over and soon he knew it would be real. Now though, he stayed stuck, submerged in the sea that had taken over his mind. His body was light enough that it floated, but the tension was strong and refused to break the final barrier. He stayed there, light but so heavy, beating against the surface but not moving a muscle, drowning but not dying.

 _They'll die,_ he thought, even as soft coos and a tiny face sunk deeper and deeper in the water, crushed by the pressure until they were nearly unrecognizable, buried in the sand until they could no longer be seen.

 _"He's mine_ ," fell from his lips as little red eyes were buried deep in the ocean floor, covered all over with thick sand until they were nearly no more.

" _They'll die..._ "

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

Time passed.

He was calmer now, enough so that his tears had no other choice but to dissipate, and his inner pleas had no other choice but to cease. Over time, the pain he had felt had changed. No longer was it a suffocating agony that poisoned his body. Now, he was simply numb.

He could not quite say which was worst. Did it matter?

He had not moved, of course; even through his calm he stayed. The boulders beneath him were still, but he knew that far beneath them the ground was shaking. The air around him buzzed with an otherworldly energy. It tempted the strands of his hair until nearly all of it reached towards the sky and stung his skin when it zapped too closely.

It was as if he were in the middle of a battlefield; the planet’s last desperate fight before it was reduced to nothing. And it would be, he knew. He could not say he understood what was happening, but he knew that his planet was dying.

He did not care.

No, that was a lie; he _did_ care. He cared, because how else could he explain the hope he felt that the planet would lose the battle faster? 

When the world finally succumbed to its demise, then he would as well. He would die. Finally, right here, holding the hand of the one he cherished above all else, he would die.

Suddenly—like all bad things were—his attention was captured. His ears caught the sound of crunching rocks as they were stepped upon behind him, and the groaning of a pained body moving when it should not be. He was surprised to hear it. Part of him must have believed he was the only survivor left.

The person, a man, kept coming. He realized eventually that the man was coming for him.

Once that realization struck, he did not bother to insult his own intelligence by wondering who it was. When had it ever been anyone else?

" _You_..."

Never has the sound of that voice terrified him so.

"Did you think—” the voice cuts off around a ragged cough. “Did you think you were going to leave me?"

 _Run_ , a voice that almost sounds like his own says, _run_! He can hear it, understands what the word means and understands the urgency, but he does not. He cannot. His body stays rooted to the spot, pinned there by a great number of things. He can imagine each one in his mind. His injuries: a set of cuffs around his hands. His exhaustion: a chain around his waist. His promise to her: a weight on his legs.

His lack of will: a stake through his heart. 

“Where did you think you would go?” the voice asks him, growing closer. Every scrap of his boots against the stones passes through Chill's ears like an assault. The steps are slow, not in any sort of hurry and why would he be? What threat is there from prey that had already given up hope? There is none—not for the hunter.

Like prey, Chill feels something like fear. He feels fear because _he_ is not like other hunters. _His_ victory did not mean death for the prey.

Chills hand squeezes around the lifeless one in his grip. He squeezes so tightly that his hand pangs from the effort of it, but he does not let go. Comfort from a corpse was better than no comfort at all.

“Did you think that your cunt-less mother was going to save you?” the voice says again, _his_ tone nasty and disgusting.

He had not thought that that man would save him, but the words don't come and either way, that's not what _he_ wants to hear.

“You belong to _me_!”

A tight grip closes around his ankle, and yanks at him. He tries to fight it, he truly does. He tries to hold onto her hand with everything he has, tries his best to keep the life in her, but he is weak. Always so weak.

“ _Who said you could leave me?!_ "

Another pull and he is torn away from her. His body flies from the rock pile onto the ground. His right shoulder takes the full force of the impact.

 _“_ Who said it? Who told you, you could leave me? _”_ the voice demands, so loud that the sound echoes throughout the canyon of decimated rocks. “ _I_ didn’t say it!”

Then he hears the jingle of a belt buckle being unhooked, the zip of a zipper coming undone. The sounds are familiar to him. He knows how this game is played.

It is not truly a game, he knows. In truth it is something quite awful, something taboo, something so dishonorable that both offender and victim feel the stain of it. This is why degenerates were feared. This is how innocents are disgraced and enemies degraded. This is what victors do to their spoils. This is what monsters with power do to those without.

He never understood what was so terrible about it. Maybe because by the time he knew it was wrong, it had already been right for so long. No matter how right it had seemed, though, he had never enjoyed it. He never liked the unease and uncertainty that would grow stronger each and every time he was in the Master's bed. He never liked not knowing if it would be the Warden or the Master that would torment him that day.

He had never liked it, but this is the first time he ever thinks, _No_.

Chill bats at the hands that grab at him. He earns a slap so hard his skin breaks, splits open like the stone hand was a knife. Nonetheless, even though his face still burns from the punishment, he thinks, _No_. _No. No. No._

It does not matter. All his struggle earns him is a tighter hold on his hair, several strands coming loose from the strain. _His_ rough fingers pry his mouth open, and the worst part of _him_ forces itself inside.

The flesh is almost as tight as the rocks it is designed after, and it plunders past his teeth with no regard for their sharpness. His throat spasms, gags, and his eyes sting with tears.

It is awful. It is so, so awful.

“I’ve been good to you,” he hears _him_ say, _his_ words made of anger, but _his_ grunts made from pleasure. “I saved your life. They all wanted to see your little body burn on a pillar three times the size of you, but I saved you. I brought you to my home, gave you life, and this is how you repay me? By trying to leave me?”

Chill has no idea what _he_ is talking about. He cannot breathe, not when his mouth is full, not when his nose is beating against a sharp pelvis faster than he can draw breath.

“I bet you wished that blast had killed me. Bet you’d go running after _him_ like the whore you are.”

Who? Who? Who? He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe.

“He doesn’t want you. He never wanted you, and you would dare choose him over _me_?”

He cannot breathe...

Then it was over. _He_ pushes him back so roughly his face finds the dirt again. He gasps for air, coughing around saliva and the burning in his throat.

“No one wants you. Not Frieza. Not Vegeta. Not anyone. Only me. You’re mine and you aren’t going anywhere!”

He knows that is true. Frieza had condemned him, and Vegeta had abandoned him. _He_ was the only one who gave him purpose, made him feel needed, gave him the chance to make up for all the wrongs his father and forefathers had done.

_Neeila wanted me._

The thought makes the fight in him burn anew. He kicks and scratches, such weak, useless attacks, but he does them. It makes _him_ angry. _He_ rants and raves more angry words that Chill cannot hear over the sound of his own growling and shouting. 

Chill holds no illusions that his resistance makes any difference, but the hands lift off him all the same. He has been granted reprieve, but only that. _He_ is not done with him, far from it he knows. He just wants more, Chill knows as well, can feel it build in the air between them.

"Look at me! Look at what you've done to me!" And then for the third time that day, his blindfold is lifted off of his eyes.

Chill had seen the Warden's face only once before. It had been the first day that Chill was taken from the grand building. He did not remember much of what had happened before then. He could not say what it was that had prompted the Warden to show his face to him then. He could not say why the Warden felt it safe for the red of his eyes to see the light of the world.

He remembered his face though. He remembered the sharp jaw and cracked skin. He remembered the color of his brush backed hair that Neeila told him was called brown, and the eyes Neeila told him were called navy. He remembered the soft promise of danger in those eyes, the way they made his hairs rise and his spine shudder, the way they pierced him down deep, like there was nowhere within himself that he could escape them.

The Warden does not look like that way now. His once finely brushed hair is now a ragged whirlwind. His face is nearly destroyed by deep gashes and wounds and dripping with blood. His eyes are shot with red, and the danger is no longer an undercurrent. The danger screams at him now, as does the anger, the rage, and the promise of pain.

He quickly closes his eyes, but it is too late. The image still glows brightly in his mind; every detail etched perfectly in what should have been the darkness behind his eyelids. Chill hates it. He hates that when he tries to see Neeila, what he had wanted to be the last thing he ever saw, all that comes to mind is bloody stone and the darkness of hate. 

He does not want to see it. He had not wanted to see the Warden this way at all. He did not look like the Warden Chill has always known. He looks like a creature from a nightmare. He looks like the thing that strikes fear into one's heart.

He looks like a monster.

"Damn you,” he says. His voice sounds different, then. Softer, almost wistful. “You’re perfect for me, you know that? You always have been. My Angel. Damn you, damn you.”

Chill thinks he might feel something like guilt. No matter the pain he caused him, the torment he put him through, the Warden _had_ been good to him. No one else would have allowed him constant access to healers to keep him alive. No one else would have given him the opportunity to experience the gift of life. No one else would have taught him so fervently just what exactly he was so that he would never forget.

But then the Warden—no, the Master, he thinks—starts pulling him back by his hips, lifting them off the ground, settling him on his knees, and still he thinks, _No_. He thinks no and reaches out at anything to make it stop. He finds a stone and makes it float. Then it flies and smashes into the Master's face.

The Master lets him go, but before Chill can make his legs work, he is grabbing him again. He tries again, reaches out desperately for anything. He reaches for the Master, feels where his mind and thoughts emanate from and locks onto it. He squeezes and the Master screams, clawing at his own temple as if he could ever hope to fight a pain from within. 

He squeezes until the Master gives up on attacking himself, and instead smashes a fist against his face, then another against his unprotected tail.

“You dare!” he hears the Master snarl, somewhere distant, so hard to hear when a rock fist was shattering his most sensitive bones. “You dare! You dare!”

The Warden, the Master, the Monster stops when the ringing starts. If he says more words, Chill does not hear them. He does not hear anything. He does not see anything. He feels blood warm on his face and his legs being lifted into the air but not much more than that. There is a point where pain becomes too much. The body simply will not take what it cannot endure.

He feels nothing, and it is the same as feeling everything.

He has felt agony, he has felt it all his life. He has felt it ever since he left the grand building. Probably even before.

That is what it is, this pain that hurts so much that he can’t feel it. It is the pain of the burns of his back pressed flat against the ground. It is the pain of the small cuts dotting around his body. It is the pain of the shattered bones in his feet. It is the pain of his hungry stomach and his thirsty throat. It is the pain of hot tears stuck in his eyes.

It is the pain of his empty dreams at night. Where there should be fantasies and nightmares, there was nothing, the space so clearly voided that he missed even what he had hardly ever known.

It is the pain of lies. The pain of pretty ones, like the smile in Neeila’s voice when she spoke to him, like how she made him feel that he was worthy of that smile. The pain of ugly ones, like the thought that there had once ever been someone who held him in their arms and cherished what he was, what he could be.

It is the pain of grief. Even now, where there should be fear and the urge to fight there is only the desire for a hand that should be holding his, a voice that should be chiming in his ear, a sweet laugh that he had never understood and will never get the chance too. There is grief even beyond that, a hurt so early that he does not think he has ever been without it.

It is the pain of abandonment, because that is what it was, when it was all said and done. He was not the atonement. He was not the blood price of the wrongs done before him. He might not have ever been those things. He was the spawn that was useless to the one that sired him, and unwanted even to the one that bore him in his own body.

It is the pain of being beaten and burned and fucked. It is the pain of being sick with no medicine, of breathing in air that hurt the whole way down to his lungs. It is the pain of fear, the pain of hopelessness, the pain of praying and the pain of never having an answer.

Yet, he does have an answer, really. That is the pain of truth. He has looked back on his life, looked back on all that he has been told, been shown, been subjected to, and told himself he had accepted it. He knows now that he had not, not really. Deep down, he hid from it, denied it. He told himself those pretty and ugly lies. He told himself that he was not truly what he was, that he was more than what this world told him, that he was whatever kind of person Neeila saw when she looked at him.

But he has never needed eyes to see what is right in front of him. 

He cannot beg the agony to stop. How can you stop what simply _is_? You cannot ask the sun to burn any less hot, cannot ask the sky to bleed any other color but red. You cannot change what is and what always will be, and if you cannot escape it, then what else is there to do but to accept it?

The pain is awful, unbearable, agonizing, but it does not have to be. Is that not what the Warden, The Master, The Monster had always been trying to tell him? Pain hurt because it is resistance—the body doing its utmost to cease what it considers to be wrong. But what if he just... stops?

There is a ledge, so real that he can almost see it. He can feel it too, feel where he holds it. He is barely holding on, now. What had once been both hands planted firm like the tether of a rope is now scarcely more than a finger, a strand of hair holding all of his weight, dangling him teasingly over what lies beneath.

What if he just... let go? Let the last of his grip fade, let everything inside of him fall away like the last leaf of a branch, the last petal of a flower, the last light against the dark.

He can end all of it: the fighting, the struggling, the hurting. He can empty his mind of his memories, his emotions, his thoughts. He can go down where it is too quiet to hear, too dark to see, too empty to feel. He can go where all the pain stops. He can go down where it is too deep to come back from.

He can let it go.

He can...

He can...

He can see a light, glowing so bright it stings his sensitive eyes, unaware that he had even had them open. The light grows brighter as it moves closer, but he does not look away. He does not look away and he sees the light shift into the shape of a figure. 

The figure is a man, blond of hair and enraged of eyes, encased in the glow like the sun lives within him.

The man did not have wings or robes, but Chill is certain he is an angel. Not the kind of angel the Master had made him, but a true one—a servant of the gods above.

It seems even a tyrant's spawn, a demon, a monster deserves the beauty of something holy to carry him off in death.

TBC


	21. The Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter includes VERY graphic depictions of violence.*

Chapter Twenty: _The Angel_

Vegeta remembered the day Trunks was born with perfect clarity.

A servant—though apparently the more appropriate term was ‘employee’, as if that made any sort of difference—had been sent to inform him. From the outside of the gravity chamber, her voice barely heard over the hum of 400 times the gravity of Earth, she had told him that Bulma was in the beginning stages of labor.

She did not say that Bulma had asked for his presence, and he had no desire to go. He stayed and trained that whole night.

The same woman came again the next morning, saying that there had been complications, but Bulma was stable in the medical wing of the building and would likely be released by the end of the week.

She also handed him a letter. It was short and written in Bulma’s handwriting.

_The baby is healthy and has your face. I named him Vegeta because he is a saiyan prince and I won’t take that away from him, even if his father is the worst jerk in the whole universe. That being said, I refuse to look at a baby and call him such a dreadful name every day. In this region, people commonly have middle names. His middle name will be Trunks and that is what he will go by._

Vegeta had been irritated by both the insult and the 'middle name'. _Trunks_ was the most ridiculous name he had ever heard of.

Then he had stomped down the annoyance and reminded himself that he did not care what that woman named her child.

Later that night, he had gone to the healing room where Bulma was residing. She had been asleep, her hair an unruly mess against her pillows, with the dull scent of her blood still lingering in the air. Her skin had been so pale she could have been dead, the entirety of her body glowing like a spirit in the light of the moon.

He did not give her a second glance.

In the cradle next to the bed, his son lied awake, cooing and waving fists the size of Vegeta's thumbs. He supposed it looked like him, but not too much. Clearly a half-breed, but if Kakarot’s brat's power was anything to go by, that did not necessarily have to be a shortcoming. 

The Fifth in the Line of Vegeta. Perhaps it would prove itself worthy of the name.

Not it. He.

When the clouds parted and the moonlight shone further into the room, he saw that the baby’s eyes were bright blue, like Bulma’s. A safe color. Not at all like before.

He destroyed the thought the moment it manifested. There had been _nothing_ before.

He had banished the thought, buried it deep down back where it belonged, but unease had already begun to poison his body.

He left them then, flew off from that window with no intent of ever returning. Despite his seeming resolve, he had always felt a distinctive _pull_ towards them, so real it was nearly physical. The pull allowed him to fly off to space not long after, but not to a planet that was overly far away. The pull kept that woman and her child in his thoughts. The pull eventually brought him home and kept him there.

He felt that same pull now. He could feel it grow stronger the more he walked, like a magnet finding its other end. It was a fierce pull, and it was no longer content to remain hidden within him.

The pull—and the map—bring him to an enormous gate, framed on both sides by barbed, metal fences that went on for miles in both directions. The gate doors were both spread wide open, though if men usually guarded it, they were long gone now. Above the doors was a large sign, hanging precariously from where it was once sturdily attached to the posts.

 **DIVISION III** , it read.

When Vegeta crossed through the opening, he was met with a warzone. 

The dark smoke clouds, clinging to the air in a thick fog, painted the camp a grim shade. What once must have been flat ground was now an ocean of destroyed stones and jagged crevices leading down into where it was too dark to see. Precariously placed rocks fell from the cliffsides, crashing into the battered ground below with impacts so loud his ears nearly rung from the volume. If any life had survived what must have been the heart of the energy explosion the dragon balls caused, they had long since fled. All that was left were corpses, dressed in navy uniforms and grey garbs alike.

On closer inspection, it was not quite like a warzone. There were no men draped across their wives, no mothers draped across their children. In place of weapons, there were hoes and pickaxes in their deaden grips. Those in war usually at least knew their deaths were imminent. These people had not even had a chance to be afraid.

He thought of when he saw his own son, Trunks, motionless, bathed in the magenta light promising his death. Unconscious, yes, but still alive, and then suddenly not. Unaware, the boy had been, but Vegeta had known, had watched his child in his final moments and was not able to save him, was not even able to hold him—

Vegeta thought that maybe their ignorance was a blessing.

He stepped through the carnage. The energy in the air was still strong here. It zapped at his skin like sharp kisses, like an opening act before the main event, like a tease before the climax. He stepped over bodies and uneven stones but did not bother to avoid the pools of blood dominating every inch of the ground. Red seeped further up the sides of his boots like the stains of watercolor. He imagined this soilage would not wash out so easily.

As he walked, he came across a building, larger and more lavish than the rest. Despite its sumptuous design, he thought it was rather ugly. That it was nearly completely destroyed seemed only to be an improvement. Any building with _brass_ doors deserved to crumble to the ground.

What did they call that building? A headquarters? A gatehouse? He thought he might have gone inside that very same building, but he would never remember such a niche detail. It was no doubt the most important one in the Division, so he must have.

Had the boy ever been in there, he wondered? He must have been, certainly. He might have even been raised there; after all, they could not very well put an infant to hard labor, could they? He must have been cared for by someone at some point before then.

Who did it? He could not help but to wonder that too. Who nursed the boy when he was hungry? Who cleaned him when he soiled himself? Who taught him language and how to bathe himself and how to hold utensils and how to dress himself? Certainly not Ziloh—that man would never lower himself to such domiciliary care. Nurses, then? A Surrogate? Whomever bothered to peek into his cradle? Who raised his boy and let him walk out those doors into this hell?

The rage, it was there again, pulsating underneath his skin in time with his beating heart. He pushed it back, but not so far this time. It was still close enough that his blood grew warmer from its presence. It was still close enough that he could hear its whispers like soft wind in his ears.

 _You are so close,_ it told him. _So close._

_But will you get close enough?_

_I will_ , he thought back firmly, almost savage in his certainty. He would, he _knew_ that he would.

He knew that he would, and somewhere inside of him, deep down where his pride could not reach, it made him feel the inklings of fear.

It was ridiculous, preposterous, so unbelievably shameful he nearly choked under the weight of it. Who feared their own child? He was reclaiming what had always been his and he dared to be frightened?

Still, as much as he berated himself, his heart still pounded a beat so hard his chest could hardly contain it. What would he say, he thought? What would he do? What would the boy— _Vegeta would sooner rip out his own tongue before he ever said that horrid name_ —do? He was thirteen years old now. In two years, he would be considered an adult by saiyan standards. Even by human standards, the boy was passing out of childhood.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years for anger to brew, for the wounds of betrayal to fester, for the thirst for blood to rise. His own desire to see Frieza die screaming had manifested in far less time.

Vegeta thought back to that day that seemed so long ago, when the boy had been so close that he could have reached out and touched him. He remembered meeting those eyes but nothing that came after. What had the boy’s face looked like then? It had most likely worn shock at first, but what after? Relief? A smile, perhaps? Or had it been contempt?

Or maybe he had looked upon the one who bore him and there had been no recognition at all.

Was that better? The sting of longing could not exist when one did not know there was something to be missed. Of course, that could just as easily be a different pain altogether—living so lowly you never knew that there could ever be more. Which was worse?

Vegeta did not know.

What Vegeta _did_ know was that the boy was close. He was close enough that Vegeta could feel him in truth. Throughout his trek through the decimated Division, he had sensed little more than the smallest bits of life energy amongst the chaos that tainted the air—rodents and insects and other such miniscule, yet resistant creatures. 

Now, like the shades of lamps had been removed, two lifeforms shined brightly above all the rest. One life was _his_. Vegeta did not need to study it, did not need to consciously commit it to memory the way he had done for Bulma, for Kakarot, for all the rest of the earthlings they called friends. He just knew it, like he had always known Trunks.

The other was darker in aura, familiar in its twistedness, and ugly beyond acceptance. It was also incredibly weak in power. Insignificant, not at all worthy of the sins that _bastard excuse for a man_ had done. 

(Vegeta held more power in one finger than that man had in his whole body. Vegeta had no doubts on how their encounter would end.)

He began to run, all the care he had for watching his steps long gone now. He ran through a camp of collapsing barracks. He ran through a field of ruined grains. He ran along a miles high fence that somehow, despite everything, still hummed with electricity. He ran. He ran. He ran.

He ran until he was there. 

Then he saw them.

He saw the boy, black hair sprawled out in the dirt, face bare of the blindfold but his eyes screwed shut.

He saw where his pants were stripped down, saw where his ankles were pushed up by his ears.

He saw Ziloh, his face bloody and his eyes wild, scooting his naked hips closer to his boy, his son, his _baby_ —

Something breaks, and it is only his ears that hear the deafening _snap_.

It is this type of moment here that has taught him the difference between being cold-blooded, and to have bloodlust.

Vegeta has known many blood thirsty men in his lifetime. He has known some soldiers who counted every kill, some who even marked their bodies like a canvas to hold the tallies, proud of each life claimed by their hands. Vegeta had never cared to list the faces and names, could not see why he should even bother to try and remember. Whatever his kill count was, it was absurdly high. Families, civilizations, entire planets worth of people have met their ends by his hands. What use was there in counting, in committing faces and names to memory when the number was astronomical? 

He has murdered more souls than he will ever know, and yet he can count easily enough the number of people that he truly wanted to see dead. Frieza. Zarbon and Dodoria. The Ginyu Force. The androids. Cell. Maijin Buu. Kakarot and his band of fools. That was scarcely more than a handful of people whose eyes he personally wanted to watch the light fade from, when compared to just how many dead bodies his actions were actually responsible for.

He does not have bloodlust, because he cannot spare that type of desire on just any person.

He has always been a killer. He has never hesitated before delivering a final blow, never shuddered at the sight of life blood, never was tormented by the screams he caused, even when he heard them in his dreams some nights. He could rip a woman's beating heart from her chest, could crush the skull of a weeping child and carry no remorse when all was said and done. 

Blasé though he may be regarding the value of life, it is not as though he wanted them dead in particular. It could have just as easily been another woman, or a different child that he killed, and he would not have known the difference. They were not special in any way. A job needed to be done, and they happened to be somewhere they should not have been when the time came.

Frieza, once Kakarot, and all those he called his enemies were all special, deserving of meeting their demises at the receiving end of his power.

Ziloh, too, is special.

Whether because the sound of the energy exuding off of Vegeta alerts him or because he can sense his death coming for him, Ziloh looks towards him. The motion is so quick that his expression does not have time to change before his face is up and on display. It is only for a moment, the split second before the terror ( _and oh how beautiful the terror is_ ) sets in, but Vegeta sees it. He sees the wicked, foulness of the smile sharpening his cheeks, the predatory gleam in his eyes—the glisten that comes just before the devouring of prey.

But he is no real predator. He is a weak man, the kind who barks and snarls but does not bite. He is a sheep playing a wolf, but a pretender cannot uphold the façade when faced with true power.

The expression is gone now, completely overtaken by horror and Vegeta loves it, _relishes_ it. The sight makes the very blood in his veins sing. The tune of it is beautiful, a melody he has not heard in so long ( _far, far too long_ ). It grows louder with every step he takes. It rises at every trembling muscle, every quivering lip of the man before him. 

The song grows to a booming fortissimo when Vegeta’s fist punches through Ziloh’s gut.

It is a devastating blow. He can feel the heat of it left over on his hand. When he looks, he sees the white of his glove is gone and replaced by dark blood and viscera. Even the bastard’s very nature is a lie. His outside looks like stone, but on the inside, it seems, he is soft. He plays as though he is a god and yet he is held together by weak, fragile parts just like any other man. 

Not entirely weak, it seems, for when he looks up, he sees that Ziloh is still living. The blow had thrown him back into an impossibly tall boulder, the impact smashing a dent perfectly shaped around his body. His hands are held tight against his torso, holding in the innards that threaten to spill out. His eyes have lost the all-consuming fear they once held and now simply look shocked, as if he cannot believe that there is a hole in his stomach, and all Vegeta thinks is, _he is_ _still breathing_. 

Vegeta does not see much—does not see the way the stones tremble from his radiating power, does not see his own golden hair growing past his shoulders—but he sees that. He sees Ziloh’s chest still heaving, taking in air that he does not deserve. Vegeta can see him there, still living the life he forfeited the moment he had taken his son, had tortured and tormented his son, had tried to _rape_ his son right before his eyes—

His vision blanks.

Then his hand is locked around Ziloh’s throat.

Not so tight at first. He can still hear the faraway, echoing of words that leave his mouth. _“I saved his life! They wanted him dead, but I vouched for him! Please! I made sure he was fed. I made sure he was safe. I was good to him! Please!”_ Vegeta hears the words, but the concept of language is long lost to him. They are just noises, meaningless squeaking from a dead man, insignificant when the sweet song playing in his ears has reached its crescendo.

Vegeta squeezes until the noises stop. He squeezes until the whites of the man’s eyes fill with pools of blood that ooze down his cracked cheeks. He squeezes until the thrashing stops and bone crunches beneath his hand. He squeezes until there is hardly anything left holding the head and body together and everything that was Ziloh, descended from the third blood of His Imperial Majesty Hikso, the Warden of Division III is gone and only a corpse remains. He squeezes and squeezes and squeezes because it is not enough. There should be nothing left of him in this plane of existence.

Vegeta drops the body. Before the feet can touch the ground, he points his palm at it and blasts it all away. Every detail is illuminated in the light of the energy, down to the color of the clothes and the lifelessness in the eyes. He sees every particle fade away to nothing, until even the place where his body had dented the boulder is obliterated.

It is over.

But it is _not_ over. How could it be over when the rage still burns inside of him this way? It swims right under his skin still, the strokes so powerful it turns what should be a calm sea into a nightmare of tumultuous waves. The boiling of his blood has not lessened, nor has the red dimmed from his vision. The music is stuck right at the climax, unsatisfied, unwilling to fade out when there is more, there _has_ to be more, because this rage has long surpassed what can be contained, and it won’t stop burning until everything around him, the air, the very ground beneath his feet is gone, blown away until there is nothing left—

The sound of whimpering was quiet, so low it might as well not have happened at all but Vegeta heard it. The pitiful sound brought the music to a dead halt, like a turntable needle suddenly lifting off a vinyl record. The sound sliced through the rage, cut through the power still radiating off his body, made his hair shorten and turn back to black.

Vegeta turned around.

The boy was a bit further away, but not too far from him, not even a whole twenty feet. Still on the ground, like it had not even occurred to him to move aside from drawing up his pants. He was curled up like a fetus, his hands wrapped tight around his legs and his face buried deep in his knees, trembling in the dirt. His tail had enveloped itself protectively around him, as if it were his last line of defense. He could not have looked more afraid if he tried.

Vegeta looked at him, saw his son, the one he had held first, the one he had given up for dead, the one he had failed so spectacularly, and felt fear too.

He walked slowly, cautiously, doing his best not to seem like the threat that he undoubtedly was. The boy did not even look up to notice. He kept his face buried, even when Vegeta was right beside him. He did not move even when Vegeta crouched down next to him. The fear had his heart pumping so madly he was nearly dizzy, but Vegeta pushed past it. He looked at the boy and did not know what to say. 

“Boy,” he settled with, and what a truly idiotic thing to say. Regardless, there was no reaction.

“It is over now,” he said next, but was that even a comfort coming from him? It did not seem to be. The boy stayed locked in his position, like he thought so long as his face was not seen then _he_ was not seen but Vegeta _did_ see him. He saw his boy hurting and afraid and did not know what to do.

 _"He was abused in probably the worst ways imaginable..."_ Bulma's voice reminded him. _"Do you know what that kind of treatment does to a person? To a child? He’s probably never known love in his whole life."_

Vegeta nearly reached out, before he stopped himself, berating himself for his thoughtlessness. He peeled off the blood-stained glove and tossed it away. He will not let that man, dead or otherwise, sully his child ever again.

He reached out again and laid a hand in his hair. The movement was awkward, and the moment he did it, he wanted to snatch it away, but he didn’t. Trunks seemed to like it when Bulma did it to him. He would smile, even when she ruffled all of his efforts with a comb away, like her touch made it all worth it.

The boy did not smile at him. He went rigid underneath his palm, his whole body somehow tensing even more, like he was bracing for a hit. A hit that was so certain to come that even his fear could not motivate him to try to run from it.

The rage simmered, but he cut the fire and closed the lid before it could boil over. There was no time for that now. Instead, he focused on stroking his hand over his hair, let the rough, straw-like locks slip through his fingers over and over. He kept the touch calm, hopefully soothing. He did not touch where the blindfold was tangled in the knotted strands.

He leaned in closer to make sure his words were heard when he said, “I will not hurt you. I swear it.”

The boy said nothing, but after a while, his body started to loosen. The hands around his legs don’t hold so tight and his knees softened their rigid cover over his face enough that Vegeta could see it. He saw the boy’s eyes squeezed almost impossibly shut, he saw the twin lines that trailed down his cheeks. He took in his nose and chin and ears and the shape of his cheekbones. He knew that logically, this face was the very same one he had seen all those years ago, but the features Vegeta was met with now sparked almost no recognition.

His stomach sunk down low under the weight of his dismay. The eyes that he could not yet see were familiar, as was he supposed the hair color, but that was all. He had not remembered, not truly, what his child looked like.

Suddenly, a loud bang rung through his ears and the ground beneath them shook. The rumbling eventually subsided, but the point was clear—the planet was on its last legs of life.

“We need to go,” he told him. Once more, the boy did not seem to register the words. Vegeta took his one hand off his hair, and with both he reached down and grasped the boy’s arms. The boy was tensing again, and the whimpering started anew. Vegeta kept the motions slow, easy. He could not remember the last time he was this gentle. Not since Trunks was an infant, he thought, during the rare times he bothered to hold him.

_“Are you willing to be a father?”_

He brought the boy in close. The motions were awkward and abnormal, but he did not stop until the boy was pressed up against his chest. The boy did not fight him, but he vibrated with tension. Tears were slipping down his cheeks despite how tightly his eyes were clenched, little sobs hitching in his little chest. 

The boy was so very afraid and Vegeta held him through it. he held him until the whimpering quieted and his body relaxed again. He held him until the tightness of his eyelids loosened and his breathing slowed. He held him and watched the adrenaline fall away and leave an exhaustion so great that the boy had no choice but to fall into sleep. 

He kept holding him because he was _finally_ holding him after so, so long.

_“It’s not too late to do better.”_

He thought of the man he was and the delusions he tricked himself into believing not even three days ago, thought about how it was no longer a baby he was holding in his arms, thought of each and every one of the last thirteen years. He wanted to beg to differ. He wanted to know how he could possibly believe such a thing to be possible. What was the point in doing better when the damage had already been done?

He wanted to know, but he did not ask, because the longer he held him, the more a pain began to come to life. It was a strange pain—not like what the rage felt like when it grew too fast and too hot, not like the pain of this failure. It was something different. Profoundly different, like the lingering sting after a crushing weight had been lifted from his lungs.

It might be a good ache; he could not really tell. Whatever kind it was, it made his eyes sting. He felt the heat of tears and closed his eyes before they could come to the forefront.

He swallowed back the tears.

He took in a single deep breath.

Then, before anything else, he wrapped his fingers around the blindfold.

He frowned at the cloth in his hand. The fabric was itchy, and just as filthy—if not more so—as the rest of the boy. He wondered how long he had been wearing this particular blindfold. Had it been months, or had it been years since this piece of cloth was first wrapped around his eyes? How long had this blindfold been hiding the red eyes beneath them? Was this the same one that had hid him from Vegeta that day, would have kept hiding him had the boy not been brave enough to look?

Vegeta supposed it did not really matter. This would be the last blindfold to ever wrap itself around his son's face.

With a tentative grip, he did his best to ease the fabric from where it was tangled in his knotted hair. Once it was free, however, he was no longer gentle. He did not even spare it a longer consideration, before it was burning up in his power, disintegrating away until nothing was left.

Then, he stood.

He directed his energy to his feet until he was no longer on the ground. He raised his power until his hair was golden again. He used the light he generated to guide him back to the ruins of their spaceship. He flew as fast as he dared with something so fragile, so precious in his arms.

The boy slept and Vegeta told himself that it was _not_ too late. It was not too late because he was here, and so was the boy, alive and breathing and safe now.

It was not too late, because Vegeta had found his son and he would never lose him again.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wrote this back before Dragon Ball Super when super saiyan 3 was still relevant.
> 
> I am not afraid to say that this is the chapter I am most proud of. Also, sorry for the gruesomeness y’all but I could not be satisfied with anything less.


	22. The Red

Chapter Twenty-One: _The Red_

_Am I dead?_

He must be, because why else would he be lying down this way? The ground beneath him was soft. It was softer than the malleable sand on Earth’s beach that his boots had nearly sunk straight through. It was softer than the feel of Neeila’s hair against his face, softer than her hair had been when he dared to touch it with his hands.

_I am certainly dead._

It was most definitely not the solid wood of the barrack bunks he was lying on, so it was not the period of rest that came at the end of the day. He should be working right now, digging an axe into walls of coal, or pushing carts full to the brim along the tracks, or doing whatever menial task his betters saw him fit to do that day.

He tried to think why he might be lying here uselessly this way. Perhaps there had been an explosion in the mines, and the impact had stunned him. He had never experienced one, but he had heard of how devastatingly fatal they were. One mistake or malfunction and whole teams of miners and their guards were blown to bits and buried underneath unending piles of rubble.

He took in a breath, but instead of the thick taste of dust and exhaust, the air he inhaled was clean, fresh. Besides, he doubted he would be alive enough to wonder if that had occurred.

_I do not think I am dead._

The more time that passed, the more the aches in his body made their presences known. The sensation was so profound that somehow even just the thought of moving made the pain flare to near astronomical heights. 

Still, he did it. He willed life back into his bones because if he was not dead then he was alive and if he was alive then he must _move_. If he did not move, he would be left for dead, stripped of his clothing and any spare food he was carrying, and piled along with the rest of the deceased. He would be carted off and dumped into a mass grave dug solely to dispose of those that were no longer useful. He would be stuck there, swimming through a sea of corpses until they covered him under layer after layer of dirt—

The chills the thought gave him was more than enough of an encouragement to move. It was a struggle. The weight holding him down refused to relent. It sat right where his lungs were, the hold so tight he felt like he was suffocating. He _was_ breathing. He could feel the air sliding from his mouth and into his throat, but from there it seemed to disappear, vanishing before his lungs could even get a taste. It was an unfamiliar and a familiar pain all at once.

It was awful. It was truly, truly awful.

_I should be dead._

But he was not, and so he would _move_.

Yet, when his synapses screamed at his body to move, it was not his muscles that answer the call. At least, not the right ones. His hands did not move to brace his weight. His back did not rise from the plushness beneath him. His feet did not take him far, far away from wherever the Hell he was.

His eyes, though, they opened.

There was a bright light directly above him, and he did not manage to close his eyes fast enough to prevent the sting. The pain was useful, however. It gave him something else to focus on other than the sudden, frantic beating of his heart.

His blindfold was gone.

Now that he realized it, he could very much feel that the familiarity of a snug cloth was absent. The skin around his eyes was so bare, so utterly and uncomfortably naked. He wondered how he had not noticed something so completely _wrong_ before now.

He entertained for a moment that perhaps the concealing fabric was not too far; it would not be the first time circumstances had pushed it askew. No matter how hard he focused, though, he did not feel it pushed up to his forehead, nor did he feel it tangled in his hair.

His blindfold was truly gone. 

He told himself not to panic. He told himself that there must be a rational explanation as to why he was exposed in this way.

He could not think of one.

What should he do? Finding a new one was obviously the priority, but where? How could he find one when he did not even know where he was? He did not have the luxury of time. Sooner or later, his absence would be noticed. He could waste not even a moment, not when punishment was just on the horizon. 

He could not afford to wait, he told his heart as it began to beat heavily in his chest. He needed to be fast and efficient, and he knew the only way to achieve that was to use his sight.

The prospect was horrifying. Stolen glimpses were one thing, but too just... _see_? Was it worth the risk to avoid punishment?

He thought of a hot knife through his leg. He thought of burning powder in his eyes. He thought of the heat of fire on his skin. He thought of all the ways it could be so much worse, and decided that yes, it was worth the risk.

Slowly, he cracked open his eyes. Even though he made an effort to look away from the light, the overall brightness in the room was still painfully intense. He pushed through it and took in as much of his surroundings as he could with a quick, surreptitious glance. Above him he saw a ceiling made of light grey tiles. Below him, he saw the surface beneath his body was covered in a soft, brown blanket. On his left, he saw a man standing by the window. He saw spandex clothing, intimidatingly large and tight muscles, hair styled like a black flame...

It all came back to him in a rush of memories. Neeila... Falling... Crawling... Being found... Gagging... Slipping away... The angel…

He bit his teeth down hard on his lip to keep the noise he nearly made inside. The sudden rush of panic at least made the weight on his chest feel less oppressive.

He thought, _what is he doing here?_ Then he thought with even more panic, _what am_ I _doing here?_

Vegeta’s back was to him, but it was so clearly him that Chill did not bother to deny it. What was he looking at? What would he look like when he turned around? Chill asked himself all these things, but he did not really want to know. He wanted—no he _needed_ to get away. He needed to go before Vegeta saw him, before he had a chance to do whatever it was he had brought him here to do. He needed to get back to the Warden wherever he was, even though everything inside of him wanted to stay far away. He needed to leave now.

He rose from the bed. Slowly, both so the bed would not creak, and so his muscles would not scream too loudly in protest. Vegeta did not seem to notice the motions. Whatever he was staring at out the window, it was blessedly distracting enough to render his peripheral vision useless.

Chill crept to the edge of the bed, the side farthest from the windows. He slid off the edge cautiously, then dropped his legs to the floor so gently the impact made no sound. Immediately he ducked down until the whole front of his body was pressed firm against the tiles.

The motion made his entire body ache fiercely. There was a physical aspect of it, of course—his feet and back had been bandaged and the knife wound in his leg had been stitched but they still buzzed with the lingers of pain. The ache was also something deeper, though. His muscles had turned into a mush of cereal left in a pot too long, and his eyes seemed to be one blink away from the darkness of sleep. 

He was exhausted, he realized. He felt the sudden, powerful desire to climb back into the softness of the blankets, let their warmth wrap snug around his body, and just... stop.

He did not climb back into the bed because Vegeta still stood on the other side. He could not sleep now because when he would wake, his eyes would still be naked, bared for all to see, and no sleep was worth the consequences of that.

With his strange new ability of sight, he scanned the area around him. There was not much to look at, at least not in this corner of the room. Much of everything looked the same—just a lot of floor and walls. At the end of the wall, however, there was a single rectangular-shaped section that did not look like the rest. It was darker, with an odd circle sticking from it, and slits tracing all around it. 

He pondered it for a moment, before he realized that must be what a door looked like.

The motion he managed was not quite a crawl—that would require his legs, and all the neurons must be disconnected from his brain for how useless they were right now. His arms took the bulk of the work and dragged his body towards the door. It was hard, and his elbows quickly began to spark with pain from the weight, but he made it. 

He was pleased to see the door was slightly ajar; he had not even thought about how he would have opened it without Vegeta noticing, much less how he would have reached the knob. He pressed his palm against it and pushed gently. The door parted without a sound, revealing the room in slow, careful snippets.

When the door was out of the way, he saw that the room was very small, shaped with square walls as opposed to the circular ones from before. There were odd objects in the room, like a round bowl made of smooth, almost shiny material, as well as an even larger basin whose insides were hidden by a barrier made of dark, flowy material held up by hooks on a bar. The objects peck at something in his memory, but he did not have the time to try and match his knowledge with what he saw.

Thankfully, next to the shiny bowl, there was a roll of white tissues bolted to the wall. They look flimsy, and part of him was very hesitant to touch that which he had not been permitted too, but it was better than the alternative. The white paper would have to do until he was given a more appropriate eye cover.

He reached for it. However, just as his hand closed around one of the soft squares, his eyes caught movement just out the corners. Fear clenched around his heart suddenly, certain that Vegeta has caught him, and uncertain what he would do about it.

It was not Vegeta he saw, however. There was glass next to him, not see-through but reflective. It was tall, stretching from ceiling to floor and all he saw was himself.

Blood red eyes stare back at him.

* * *

Mindful as Vegeta was of the little life in his arms, it took almost as long to reach the ship as it had when he had been flying about aimlessly before. With his speed diminished and his mind coasting on one track, his vision of the world around him was clearer, easier for him to comprehend. 

Not that it was much of a view. Everything was in ruins. Houses and barracks alike were crushed to near nothing underneath rocks and boulders. Fire raged amongst the debris like icing on a cake, the smoke of it so thick he could taste it. 

He imagined that the Tenas had probably built their towns inside the confines of the cliffs because they felt safest that way. How sweet the irony was that those same strong, imposing cliffsides had become the very weapons to bring about their mass destruction. 

This far away from the heart of the explosion, there were still survivors. They swarmed around one another like bees in a hive. Only in appearance though—they severely lacked the organization of bees. They were just lost, panicked people running about with no real direction, unknowing or unwilling to accept their inevitable fate. Their anguished screams echoed throughout his ears. It was a pleasant sound.

 _Damn you guards who brought pain onto my son_ , he thought, savagely. _Damn you prisoners for not shielding my son from every strike and blow. Damn you civilians for profiting off my son’s suffering. Damn you all._

 _Irrational,_ his mind said, in a voice he could not place. _You let your rage turn you into a fool._

 _Damn you as well,_ Vegeta, the fool, responded.

Eventually, the battered buildings and hordes of people fade away to the rocky valley he and Kakarot had first landed in. The ship was in worse shape than before. The surface underneath had degraded into a mass of jagged rocks, their sharp edges bending and piercing through what was nearly impenetrable metal. The ship was not completely damaged, but its integrity had been compromised enough that it would certainly never fly again without serious repairs.

It was not the safest place to bring such a fragile child, he acknowledged, but it was the meeting point he and Kakarot had agreed upon. In any case, was there really anywhere else on this forsaken world that offered any better security? Vegeta doubted it.

He found the door and dropped down inside. Thankfully, the ship had not tilted overly much, and he was able to walk across the floor with relative ease. The power had gone out, however, and the only light came from the static energy that zapped along the walls every so often.

He directed himself down the stairs. When he found the bed, he leaned over it and laid the boy gently down onto it. The boy did not so much twitch, continuing on in what may be a peaceful sleep, but Vegeta wouldn’t really know the difference for him, would he?

With the light so low, Vegeta could not give the boy a proper look over. He wanted to, needed to, really, so he opened his hand and concentrated a cache of his energy there. A small, luminous light blossomed in the center of his palm. He lifted it up until it was stuck to the center of the ceiling and bathing the room in its bright glow.

Vegeta turned his eyes back to the bed and just... looked.

He did not think he had ever seen a child his age so tiny. Despite the five-year age gap, he almost certainly matched Trunks in height. That could possibly be chalked up to genetics (neither Vegeta nor Frieza were particularly tall, after all), but the same could not be said for his weight.

And pitiful his weight was. His arms and legs were nothing more than bones with a layer of skin stretched over them. His stomach was so concave that Vegeta would not have been surprised if the boy had never known the satiation of a full belly in his life. His face was no better, with the bruised and bloody skin practically suctioned around his sharp cheekbones. His thin lips were so chapped they were cracked and peeling, and the bruised, misshapen quality of his nose told Vegeta that it was likely broken, and not for the first time.

His clothes were like poorly hung drapes over his frame and did little to preserve his modesty. Bruises, cut marks, rash bumps—they all decorated his neck and collarbone like a layered necklace. Peeking from the collar of the boy’s shirt, Vegeta could see the beginnings of a harsh brush burn along his shoulder until it disappeared towards his back.

Trailing his eyes further down, Vegeta saw that the palm of his right hand was a mess of shredded skin, and his fingers were bent so unnaturally he could scarcely bear to look at them. Between his legs, he could see that his furless tail was still just as crooked and broken as it had been when he first regarded it. Vegeta's stomach turned, though, when it became clear that the tail had been tied in a knot at one point.

With his eyes so far down, he could now see the thick, black band locked around his ankle. It did not take much for him to realize it was a locator device, likely the thing that had led Vegeta to him in the first place. 

He immediately broke it off, revealing the discolored skin underneath. It dawned on him that in his haste, he might have hurt the boy. A glance up showed he still slept, however, quiet and still, like a corpse.

He had no doubt that there were more, probably worse injuries on his body, hidden underneath the bandages that had long since lost their white color to the stains of dirt and blood. There were scars too—old, new, and everywhere. Each one was the remnant of the same trauma he could see now. Each one was a story that never should have been told.

Vegeta felt the burning of regret, and the heat of anger. _I should have killed him slower. I should have given him pain to match every scar. I should have snapped all his fingers and shredded the skin from his hands. I should have kept him long enough for his body to waste away from hunger and despair. I should have crushed him until he no longer had the strength to beg for mercy. I should have broken him until he knew that even his death would bring him no reprieve. I should have—_

 _Breathe_ , he told himself, until his teeth were no longer grinding together. _Breathe_ , he told himself as he willed his nails to unclench from the wounds they have embedded in his palms. _Breathe_ , he told himself until his dim reflection in the window no longer showed blond hair and electric green eyes.

Bulma used to tease him a lot about it. She would say that he 'liked being angry', because he was allegedly always angry, but that was not anger. He may frequently be in a less than pleasant mood, but the anger she thought she saw was not his true rage. He could never show her that. It was too awful for anyone who did not deserve his wrath to witness.

Vegeta had only felt this level of true, unaltered rage a handful of moments in his life. It had always _been_ there, of course, simmering just below the surface, biding its time until he was ready for it, or until it would stay hidden no longer. This, however, was something special. This was the rage of being left behind, excluded from the level power that was his birthright. This was the rage of losing Bulma and knowing that he could have saved her had he not made the choices that kept him from being at her side. This was the rage he had felt towards Kakarot when he had let their sons die.

He burned just as he had then, but still it was not the same. He could blame something, anything else for the rage he felt then. He could blame the gods for bestowing gifts on others that should have been for him. He could blame Maijin Buu for straying him away from what was truly important. He could blame Kakarot for a great many things.

This, he could blame on no one but himself. 

What could he do with this rage? It burned for days now and already it felt like a lifetime. It burned and burned and there was no way it could end. He had humored the thought before, but faced with it in truth, how could he possibly amend this wrong? Ziloh was dead, but the damage was still here. 

He would feel this way every time he looked at the boy, he knew. It would be here so long as he had eyes to see him, had ears to hear his voice, had hands to touch all the scars that he allowed to come to pass.

The rage was digging too deep. It reached past his thoughts and down to his spirit. This anger closed around him, trapping him, until all he knew was the wrath that thundered within him.

It was rapidly becoming more than he could handle and he realized that he needed to leave. 

His mind rejected it instantly— _how could you possibly leave him? If you take your eyes off him, he’ll be gone, taken from you again just like before_ —but his body was what had control. His feet carried him away from the bed, up the staircase, and out the door. They took him to the air, flying him so high he became engulfed by the thick blanket of mahogany clouds.

Power coursed thickly through his veins and he could not bear to have it inside of him for even a moment longer. He reared his hands back, then he threw them forward with a booming yell. Energy burst from his palms in an enormous display of light, the sky glowing around the blast as it cut through it like a tsunami against a beaver's dam. It did not stop even when it reached the end of the atmosphere. It carried on as if it did not notice, going on and on until Vegeta could see it no more.

It was not enough. There was still too much rage. 

He flung his head back and screamed. He screamed and screamed, and he cried too. He thought not even blood would be as hot as the tears that burned rivers down his face.

He hated so many things, so many places, so many people. He hated this most of all—this poison he had injected into his own blood.

It was too much, he thought. It was all too much.

He did not notice he had lost control of his energy until he was already on the ground. His hands flew out to save him from toppling onto his face, but they managed little else. His lungs struggled with every breath. his body vibrated with wrath, and something else too.

His arms grew too weak. As he shifted to fall back, he realized that the other thing he felt was complete and utter sadness. 

He stared up at the clouds, but he did not see them. All he could see was the watery film of tears that refilled his eyes. He did not even get the satisfaction of calling these angry tears. These were tears of unbridled anguish.

 _Weak_ , whispered in his mind as he let the tears run wetly from the corners of his eyes and soak his ears. But it was just that—a whisper. It was a word that held no candle to the sweet ache of pain leaving him with every tear that flows.

He did not know how long he laid there, crying out in the open for anyone to see. Eventually, though, the tears began to subside. His lungs started to accept slow drawls of air. His vision cleared to see the nightmare sky above.

He felt... he could not use the word ‘better’ because it would be a lie. Perhaps lighter. Less like he was splitting down the middle. He supposed he ought to be thankful to that.

Mostly, he was just tired.

... And more than a little disgusted at how drenched his face was.

He pushed himself to his feet, the task feeling more akin to climbing a mountain then simply standing. His eyes gravitate to the ship, but it looks just as it had before. He senses the boy’s energy, and it was the same as it had always been thus far—slow, steady, and eased. He was still sleeping.

Vegeta took a step towards the ship, but then abruptly stopped. His ears suddenly registered the buzz of faraway noises. He focused and the buzz began to clear.

He could hear the whir of an engine. He could hear the cacophony of voices.

He turned towards the direction it came from. The thing that he saw was distant, far enough away that it passed as a mountain or cliffside at first glance. Now that he knew to look, however, his eyes caught the unnatural color of it, the smooth quality of it, the lights that glowed from it...

It was a Tene spacecraft. He doubted they were receiving new prisoners at a time like this, and in any case, it was at least three times the size of the one they had brought to Earth.

They must be using it to escape.

He looked back at the craft that held the boy, before he turned away. He flew towards the other ship, though he took care to continue monitoring the boy’s energy as he did so. 

When he was close enough, his suspicions were confirmed. The crowd of people looked as though they were only just barely restraining from shoving one another in their hysteria. Some were so wounded they hardly even seemed to notice the others around them who held them upright. Just about everyone had blood staining somewhere on their clothing.

He did not see anyone in the group wearing prisoner garbs. All he saw were guard uniforms and the casual style the civilians wore.

The door to the ship opened with a hiss. The bridge lowered to the ground and a man stepped forward towards it. The guards around him held flags with a symbol of three digits on them. On his chest, he wore a gold pin with the same insignia on it. his navy eyes held a haunted look and seemed so eerily familiar.

He recalled then that Ziloh had a son. He then recalled that that son’s name was Reiko.

Vegeta only vaguely remembered the man. They were similarly aged, but Vegeta had had no reason to conduct business with him the first time he had come to this accursed planet. As far as he could remember, Reiko had only stood at his father’s side like an observant pupil. If they had ever spoken during that time, the conversation had not been memorable.

Reiko did not look at all like an adolescent failing to show the awe he felt for his father, as he had before. He looked like a man broken both in body and spirit. Battered and bloodied, he limped up the bridge alone, no father before him, no siblings or spouse beside him, no children behind him. He was the last remnant of the third blood of Hikso.

The last piece of the powers that be, the powers that made his son suffer.

Vegeta’s eyes locked on the man as his palm raised. If killing Ziloh was not enough, then killing his son would likely not bring him anymore satisfaction. Even so, he doubted it would make him feel any worse. The desire to kill had been a constant, and it did not waver now.

Reiko, like his father, seemed to have a knack for knowing when his demise was upon him. His eyes trailed over, and despite the distance, their gazes met. Horror dawned over his visage and Vegeta gave him a twisted, nasty smirk in return.

There was no one left alive who was more deserving of it now. The very blood that flowed through Reiko’s veins was enough to earn him his death. This family line, the third blood of Hikso no longer deserved to persist in this world. He would wipe it from existence, until their blood was nothing more than a bad memory.

The finest of poetry, he thought. Just as his son had paid for the sins of his fathers, so would Reiko.

He was gathering the energy in his palm when suddenly he could feel the boy’s energy spike. It spiked again and Vegeta was already gone, zipping back to the ship so fast the air cracked. His feet do not touch the ground again until he was once more at his bedside.

Upon arrival, though, he saw that the boy had not awoken. His face had scrunched up though, and his chest had begun to rise and fall faster.

Vegeta did not know if he was feeling the pain of his injuries or experiencing some sort of ill dream, but in either case he did not know what to do. 

He did nothing more than watch the boy, feeling foolish and useless until whatever prompted this reaction subsides. He watched the boy long after he had calmed, watched the slow breath he sucked in through his nose, watched how his lashes did not stir once from their spots on his cheeks. He watched until the boy was just as he had left him: wounded, unconscious, and broken.

Eventually, when he could bear to look no more, he moved to stand by the window. The sight out there was no better—just the same rocks, stones, and hideous sky. 

The desire to see green grass hit him suddenly, near ferociously. He wanted to see tall, bright buildings. He wanted to see white clouds and a soft, blue sky. He wanted to see his son. He wanted to see his wife. 

He wanted to go home.

He watched ugly cliffsides crumble apart from another quake, watched the proof of time running out and willed Kakarot to _hurry up_.

He saw something shift in the corner of his eye, and all thoughts of Kakarot and home flee from his mind. He whipped around and was met with an empty bed.

Sick panic came next, but before it could consume him, his eyes caught the opened door leading to the bathroom. From the threshold, he saw the dim makings of a child's shadow.

* * *

Chill could count each time he ever took off his blindfold.

Each time, he remembered every detail of everything he saw. He remembered the gritty look of stones. He remembered the brightness of flames. He remembered the sky.

He remembered how dark the tar pits looked when his sticky hand accidently lifted the blindfold from his eyes. He remembered the way they sizzled and bubbled, the way people in garbs like his looked as they pleaded and pleaded to be set free.

He remembered when once he had tripped and his arm landed in a puddle left over from an acid storm. He remembered the pain had been so great that he could not sleep. With his back to his bedmates and his body pressed tight against the wall, he spent the night studying it. He remembered wondering many questions to himself, like what made his skin that color, and why the burn looked so moist and shiny and bumpy, and why bodies felt pain, and if it would ever stop _hurting_.

He remembered risking a glance at a corpse once because he wanted to know what death looked like and why it was so scary. He remembered wishing he hadn’t because his dreams had never been visual before and yet he saw _that_ more times than he could count.

He remembered every time he saw Ziloh’s face. He remembered the way that lust looked in his eyes. He remembered that sometimes his eyes would become so twisted and dark that he thought in those moments his Master might not even be a person anymore and hated himself for ever thinking such a thing.

He remembered Neeila. He remembered the light that shone from her hair and every mark and blemish on her skin. He remembered seeing every fleck in her green eyes and thought he never needed to see anything else again.

He had never seen this before. He knew what it was even before he moved his hand towards it and the being in the glass copied the motion. He knew it the moment his gaze darted over.

The thing he was looking at was himself.

Just as he remembered everything else, he remembered what blood looked like. He remembered how thick it looked spilling from a wound, how it seeped through rocks and pebbles when it reached the ground. He remembered the rich, deep color.

It seemed that in this regard, everyone was telling the truth. His eyes were the exact same color as blood.

Blood outside of the body was never a good thing, he knew that much. That only meant bad things. It meant injuries. It meant pain. It meant all the things that brought about death. Did that not mean his eyes meant the same thing? Everyone seemed to think so. Even Neeila, who cared for him in a way no one else ever had. No matter how badly she had not wanted to, she had seen in his eyes what everyone else saw.

Yet no matter how hard he looked, but he could not see it. he could not see the blood of opened skin. He could not see the blood that encrusted itself on the guards’ whips or their batons once they were done utilizing them. He could not see the last blood that took life as it drained away. 

He could not even see the ugliness he had always thought would be there, not truly. His scleras were ugly, he supposed; what ought to be pure white was clearly not, marred by stark vessels as they were. As for his irises, though?

All he saw was red.

He could not stop staring at his eyes, not even when they start to sting and water. What would happen if he looked away, he thought? They might change—no, they _would_ change, surely, because all those awful things had to be in there somewhere. He kept looking because he did not want them too. He wanted them to stay this way: base, unthreatening, normal.

But what did he gain by deluding himself?

Nothing, he accepted, and glanced away. When he glanced back, his eyes were still the same. Still red, still shining in the light spilling through the doorway, still empty of everything else.

In his mind, he tried to picture the eyes on the man who gave them to him. It was not easy, as he had no memories of the Tyrant. All he had was what seemed like a vivid description that Neeila had given him once (and why did he never wonder exactly how she knew what he looked like?). She had told him of his skin colored pink, and how menacing the horns jutting from his head were. She told him of a thick tail, strong enough to crush in a skull with one swipe. She told him of how his feet never touched the floor, and how his face was bitter cold even when he smiled.

Chill did not think he matched the description, but the image before him morphed all the same.

He saw it then. He saw what dwelled inside of him, what everyone already knew was there. He saw who his eyes truly belonged to, who lived within of him, who was always a part of him.

He saw his eyes.

He saw _their_ eyes.

Disgust, utter revulsion sours him from the inside out. Suddenly, he could not look anymore. He could no longer bear to see the demon that the looking glass had brought to life. 

He jerked his eyes away to the side, and saw Vegeta standing in the doorway.

The first thing Chill thought was that Vegeta’s eyes were even blacker than he remembered. Chill had never seen black eyes before that day. Not that he had seen many eyes in his life, but the color stood out to him, nonetheless. His eyes were darker than the tar pits. They were even darker than coal. He did not know what to compare them to, in truth.

They were as dark as the deepest parts of the mines, he thought. He had looked once, but hardly saw anything worth seeing in the little light that flickered overhead. When he looked down to his side, however, the path ended in a wall of darkness. The sight had scared him, his little mind wary of what could be lurking just where the light ended. 

These eyes were like that, the kind of color someone could get lost in. 

Yet, they did not scare him. Instead, they nearly captivated him. He had never seen something so compelling as this. Intimidating, but not menacing. Deep, but not daunting. Not kind, but just as equally not cruel. 

Black was not the same as red, the color that beget fire and blood. Black was not limited to all things painful and terrible. Black could mean death, could mean bruises and the infection of disease, yes, but it could also mean... quiet. The end of the day. The bliss of sleep. 

Black looked like something that he could drown in and there would be no pain. Yes, that described it best. It would be peaceful, like slipping away and simply never coming back.

All these thoughts occur to him in the span of a second, because in the very next it dawned on him that he was staring at Vegeta and Vegeta was staring back and this _could not be happening_.

His hands slapped over his eyes so hard the impact nearly echoed in the tiny room. His body lurched to the side because his hands were not enough to shield what no one—what Vegeta most of all—should never have to see. It hurt when his body hit the floor, but he did not care. He hardly felt it, even when his knees drew up tightly to hide his face. 

It was not enough. He could hide his eyes and he could hide his face, but what about his hair? His nails? His torso and legs and feet and tail? He was still here, tainting Vegeta’s eyes with his presence. How long until the saiyan prince was ready to wipe out the stain on his legacy?

He could not die, he thought. He did not use the word ‘want’, because he has not had the time to ponder whether or not that would be a lie. He knew that he could not however, because behind the cover of his hands he could see Neeila’s pale, gaunt face smudged with dirt and blood. He saw her eyes and her smile and her desire for him to live. It was a stupid desire and he hated her for it, but she wanted it. how could he disappoint her already?

Time passed. He heard when Vegeta moved, the _tap-tap_ of his boots against the hard floor. Soon he stopped and Chill could feel him, mere inches from where he laid. It was a wonder how even with the beat of his heart blasting in his ears, he could still hear the soft rustle of Vegeta’s clothing as he crouched down.

“You need to get back in the bed,” Vegeta told him.

Everything in Chill stopped. There was that voice again, the low and thick growl of a hostile dog, nothing like the voice he pictured in his mind. What should he do in the face of something that was so dangerous?

“You have too many injuries to be crawling around," he went on. "You need to get back into bed.”

Chill did not move. Silence ensued.

“I will not hurt you.”

Chill barely registered the words. By the time he made sense of them, he felt fingers brush his shoulder and they mean nothing at all.

He jerked away so hard his back slammed into the basin. It was useless, and he berated himself for it. When Vegeta finally delivered the blow, no amount of flinching would stop it. all he was doing was shaming himself, making himself look weak. He _was_ weak, but was that what Vegeta deserved to see? He should buck up, take what was coming like a man would, show Vegeta that even if the thing before him was a disgraceful wretch, his saiyan blood was not so tainted by all the other poisons in his veins.

He wanted to. He wanted to have that kind of bravery, but he didn’t. All he had was cowardly, mind-numbing fear. He did not want to feel the strikes or the blows. He did not want to die, and not just because of the promise he made to Neeila, he could finally admit.

After another bout of silence that Chill hardly even noticed, Vegeta said, “I am going to take you to the bed. I am going to carry you there. I will not hurt you.”

 _Liar,_ Chill, thought, and the thought sickened him, _horrified_ him— _how dare you think that of the one who mothered you_ —but it must be true. Either way the fact from before remained the same. There was no use fighting against a man who could destroy him in a blink of an eye.

The next time a hand touched his shoulder, he did not fight it. he did not resist when two hands pulled him up, though he did not unclench the guard his body had adopted to make the movement easier. Vegeta did not try to unravel his limbs. Instead, he placed a hand between his shoulder blades and wormed another into the small space where the squeeze of his legs did not cover.

Then Chill was lifted into the air. He spent several moments feeling weightless, before he was pressed up against a hard chest. This close, he had no choice but to listen to the beat of Vegeta’s heart. It was pumping alarmingly fast, as if each beat was a single raindrop in a thunderstorm. The sound of it shocked him, so much so that he nearly did not notice when they started moving. He did not know what to make of the frenetic pounding that nearly matched his own heart.

He was grateful when Vegeta finally set him down. The descent was gentle, as were the sheets beneath him. Even so, he hissed on impact, the padding of the bandages on his back not nearly sufficient enough to cushion the burn wounds.

Vegeta seemed to hesitate at that, before his hands disappeared altogether.

The ensuing silence was tense, and he could not tell if it was worse or better than it had been before. He thought it might be worse. After all, Vegeta now had placed him where he was so determined to have him.

He wondered suddenly if Vegeta brought him to the bed so he could... could do what Ziloh liked to do.

Sick horror tied his gut into a nauseous knot. He did not want that. He did not want it even more than he had when Ziloh did it. He had never thought it any worse than any other kind of punishment, but suddenly it sounded like the worst thing that could ever happen. It was different, with Ziloh. The Warden was his Master, but Vegeta...

It would not be the same. It would be so much worse.

 _Please_ , he wanted to say. _Hit me. Hurt me. Kill me, but please don’t do that to me_.

He said nothing. He laid there waiting, pleading to his own useless ears.

What Vegeta eventually said was, “Look at me.”

Chill took in the words, absorbed them, analyzed them. He picked each one apart, pondered each individual meaning, then put them all back together.

 _Oh_ , he thought when it clicked. Vegeta was going to tear his eyes out.

He wanted to throw up. He nearly did, his chest heaving in time with the clench of his empty stomach. Vegeta did not have to do this. _No one_ had to do this. If his hands were not enough, then he could cover them with a new blindfold. It had not been his fault that the blindfold had disappeared. They did not need to scream at him. They did not need to beat him. They did not need to pour the poison powder in his eyes. They did not need to _mutilate_ him.

It would hurt. He had said that would be a fine alternative but faced with the reality he did not want that either. It would hurt so badly that his eye sockets would not be able to contain the pain. The pain would be everywhere. The pain _was_ everywhere, and he just wanted it to stop. What did he need to do? He would kiss their boots. He would beg for mercy. But no, that had never been enough. What else could he do? Anything other than _endure_ because he couldn’t, he just couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t take the pain, and he didn’t want his eyes ripped out but maybe they should just do it, just get it over with so it would all stop—

The phantom grip around his wrist morphed into something more real. The hands pinned his wrists to the bed, on either side of his thrashing head. He heard words that sound like “ _stop it_ ” and “ _calm down_ ” and he realized that they sounded so incomprehensible because his own screaming was nearly drowning out everything else.

Despite the revelation, it was not until a finger brushed the space behind his ear that his mind began to ease. The fingers were not like Neeila’s—too thick and not as gentle, but it was grounding, nonetheless. Every rub took a bit of tension, a bit of the panic, until his lungs were suddenly breathing right again. 

It took a while, but eventually the strings of his puppet body were cut, and he fell slack.

His eyes stayed closed, but when the hands pulled away, he did not move to wrap his arms around his face. The light overhead softened the darkness of his inner eyelids to a dull grey. He felt nearly lightheaded, spent of all energy. He felt the same way he had felt ever since he had awoken in this bed: irrevocably exhausted.

He did not sleep. He waited for Vegeta to speak, because he surely had something to say before he started to tear him apart.

“I’m sorry,” was what he said. Chill had no expectations and still it was the last thing he imagined he would hear. 

“I did not mean to... upset you," Vegeta went on, and if Chill did not know better, he would say that the tone of his voice was almost contrite. "I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I am not trying to trick you, and I meant it when I said I would not hurt you."

There was a momentary pause, then, "I want to look you in the eyes when I say what I must say to you. That is all.”

For the umpteenth time that day, the world stopped spinning.

Once more, he dissected the words, contemplated each meaning in his mind. Try as he might, he could not come up with any other interpretation than what had literally been said.

He thought a great many things in that moment. First, he thought that it must be a trick, but when silence ensued, he was no longer sure. Then he thought, why? Why would Vegeta want to see such a thing? What did he gain by subjecting himself to such a sight?

He thought that he did not want too.

He thought that he would be a fool to think he had a choice.

He reminded himself that resistance was useless. If he ran, he would get nowhere. If he fought, he would be defeated.

He thought that Vegeta was the type of man to get what he wanted, and who was Chill to try and deny him?

He thought that he was scared, that he did not want to see what would happen when he did open his eyes.

He thought that maybe he could be brave though, that maybe there was no bravery without fear before it.

He thought all that and more as he turned to face Vegeta, and opened his eyes.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this is common sense, but I’ll say this just in case: don’t follow Vegeta’s example. If someone is having a panic attack, it would probably not be helpful to pin them down and rub their ears.


	23. The Promise

Chapter Twenty-Two: _The Promise_

**_The Past:_ **

_"I am here to inform you that it is dead."_

Vegeta held his breath.

He held it even though he knew Zarbon’s eyes were still watching him, were watching the way his body held itself frozen, were watching the way his ribcage did not move even the slightest bit beneath the spandex.

_It is dead._

Time passed, but no burning brewed in his lungs. He had trained himself to swim underwater for nearly an hour—these handful of seconds were no trial. 

They were nothing compared to the weight of everything else.

_It is dead._

He held his breath. He thought of very few things. He thought of the hunger pangs in his stomach, forced to wait impatiently for the food Nappa had left to secure after he had managed to peel himself from the hospital bed. He thought of the stillness in his lungs. He thought of the things he should not ever think of again.

He held his breath until he heard Zarbon ( _pompous, limp-wristed_ _cunt_ ) turn on his heel, the gold tip of his boot scraping across the floor in a calm, unhurried manner. He held it until the door whizzed to a close. He held it until the footsteps on the other side fade to nothing.

_It is dead._

When he finally let the breath out, it tore itself from his chest like a jagged blade. When he sucked the air back in, it was wild, ragged, like he had been underwater for hours instead of minutes. It was like his lungs have spent the past ten months as unused hunks of tissues sitting useless in his chest. It was like it had been a lifetime since he had last had air.

_It is dead._

No, not ‘it’. The infant had been male. A boy. A son. Denying that did not make it hurt less.

 _He_ was dead.

All this air he was taking in, and yet somehow dizziness befell him, distorting his vision until he could hardly see what was front of him.

He supposed he should be grateful they had bothered to inform him. Curiosity was a powerful, ugly thing. He would have always wondered, he knew. Even if he had known the truth in his heart, he would have always wondered. But now, he would not wonder. He would never have to wonder what had happened to the baby.

_His baby._

_They had killed it._

_At least they had not made him watch._

He was not surprised. Really, he wasn’t. Why else would Frieza have taken him away in the first place? Infants had no place in Frieza's army. Everyone knew it, and everyone accepted it. Every soldier knew that if they chose to sow their wild oats, then those oats had better stay where they were planted. He knew this, had accepted it as far as a man who had never had any use for children could accept what did not pertain to him.

He was not surprised because while rules could be defied, circumvented, the infant was destined for death regardless. Frieza could not claim a half-breed to be his son, to inherit his fortune and to carry on his name. The magnitude of the dishonor meant mercy was not an option. It could not be left alive, lest word spread that the all-powerful Cold family name had been sullied by filthy saiyan blood.

He knew this, but he still felt pain.

Vegeta had wondered more than once why parents loved their children so fiercely. He understood loving a parent—it had been so long ago, and the king had in retrospect been a weak ruler, but Vegeta had never loved anyone the way he had loved his father.

Why was it that the other way around was even stronger? Why did mother’s and father’s shield their infants in their arms from those who wished to do them harm? Why were parents ready to lay down their own lives for them—lives so short that the mother and father could not have loved them very long, lives so small that they had not even learned what love was and how to return it?

He knew now. He had never thought he would ever discover that mystery, but he had.

Vaguely, he acknowledged his knees hitting the floor. The weight, the gravity of it all had worn down the strength in his legs, it seemed.

Vegeta should have killed it when he had the chance. Early on when its life was still hardly a life at all. It would have hurt physically, no doubt. It would not have been easy to kill what his own body was protecting, but he was no stranger to that kind of pain. He felt it all the time. He had endured more beatings than he could count, had suffered the sting of mockery until his strength had grown into something worth fearing. He had felt pain and pain and pain until he felt so much of it, it was like feeling none of it at all.

He should have done it then, because despite all the pain he had felt, it seemed he did not know pain at all. He could have handled the crippling blow to his gut, the ache and burn as the life inside of him died away.

This though...

This pain he could not handle.

It stemmed from his heart, but he felt it everywhere. He felt it in the palms of his hands where his nails were digging too deeply into the skin. He could feel it in his abdomen, where the incision, still red in its newness, ached with every move he made. He could feel it in his ears, where those three damning words still rang over and over again.

He felt the pain and he felt the sickening guilt. Was not the role of the parent to protect their offspring? To keep them healthy, well, and safe?

Vegeta had not done that.

Vegeta had let his child die.

What a powerful thing love was. Born from instinct, not only choice or prolonged proximity, it seemed. What an utterly useless thing it was. What purpose did the love he felt for the baby have if it had not been enough to save him?

Or perhaps it was Vegeta who was the problem. Perhaps it was his love that was deficient, abnormal, wrong. Would he not have fought harder for his baby’s life if it wasn’t? He would have found the strength, like the women who moved grand obstacles with their bare hands to free their trapped children, like the men who ran straight into the jaws of death all to buy those precious to them just even a little more time in life.

Vegeta had done nothing.

_Why? Why? Why?_

He did not possess the amount of love necessary to protect, but he had just enough of it to feel the sting when it was torn away. That was the only explanation for the tears he felt running hot, foreign trails down his cheeks. Why else did he feel like he could not breathe, like even his lungs wanted it all to stop?

_The pain needed to stop._

Vegeta climbed to his feet. He put one foot out, then put the other in front of that one. He did it again, and again, and again. Each move felt like it belonged to someone else and himself all at once. _Step. Step. Step._

He walked until he was at the other side of the room and standing in front of the wall of cabinets. He opened one of the little doors and reached inside. There would not be anything _preferred_ —this was not a surgery room, after all—but he did not need the job to be pretty. He just needed it done.

Eventually his hands found a pile of exactly what he needed. He wrapped his hands around as many of the unused syringes as he could. The needles were capped, and with his other hand he tore them off in one pull. Some of the needles got bent in the process but they were intact enough to do what needed to be done.

In his mind he could see it, how all the pain would end. The pain was so deep in him that it had burrowed within his very blood, and the only way to dispose of it was to let it out. It would squeeze through the space between his punctured skin and the needles. It would drip down until the dust grey floors were a vibrant, vicious red.

On the other side, there may be darkness, or there may be the fires of Hell. Perhaps his child’s blood was defiled enough that he would see him there waiting for him.

_He was dead._

He heard someone shout his name, but his hand was already flying towards his throat.

A grip around his wrist jerked him to a stop just before the needles pierced his skin. He looked up and saw Nappa staring down at him, his expression one of abject terror, the likes of which Vegeta had never seen on his companion before. Behind the man, Vegeta could see the remains of their meals desecrated on the floor near the doorway.

He took in a breath.

Then he let it go.

He let everything go.

“We are leaving,” he told Nappa. “We will meet up with Raditz and his brother and make a plan from there."

 _And kill Frieza_ , was left unsaid, but heard well enough.

He would kill Frieza for vengeance for his father’s death. He would kill Frieza for enslaving him into a lifetime of servitude. He would kill Frieza because Vegeta will become the most powerful in the universe and no one would stand in his way. 

He would kill him for no other reason than those ones. There was no other reason.

(But there was. Deep down in his heart, so deep he barely even remembered it was there, he knew there was.)

* * *

**_The Present:_ **

Vegeta had never seen a person look so young and so old at the same time.

His face was naturally that of a child’s—soft where age lines would be, his features small in a way that could only be from his youth. There was something so distinctly aged about him though. He read it in the hard, malnourished lines of his face, in the way his shoulders hunched up around him like castle walls, in the way he held eye contact for hardly a second before he glanced away. He saw it in the skin where the blindfold had been, slightly paler than the rest of his face and tight with wrinkles. 

Vegeta had noticed before, but had not wanted to accept what it meant, had not wanted to realize that the boy must have been wearing blindfolds for a very long time—probably his whole life.

The rage boiled, but simmered on its own. A person could only feel so much of it in one day, he supposed.

He took in the boy, his hard lines and grimy clothes. He took in the curtain of hair that shadowed his eyes. The lot of it was so knotted and matted that Vegeta wondered if he ever even bothered to run his fingers through it. He wondered if they would have to cut it. He wondered if his mother's hair had actually been styled that way, or if he just wanted to believe it had been.

He wondered why he was wondering about such irrelevant things.

When his eyes dropped to the boy’s lips, he realized, not so irrelevantly, that they were so chapped they were white and splitting down the center.

“Water,” he gracefully blurted out. The boy jumped.

“I—” Vegeta coughed, wondering if he had ever felt so awkward in his life. “I’ll get you water.”

He turned and went to the kitchen. Once there, he took a large cup from the cupboard. He turned the tap for the cold water and held the cup under the stream. Once it was full, he returned and held it out to the boy.

The boy hesitated, but only for half a second. He snatched the cup so quickly that liquid tipped over the side and onto his hand. He didn’t seem to care, nor did he care about the water that dripped from the corners of his lips as he gulped it down. In what couldn’t have been more than three seconds, the cup was emptied.

“I’ll get you more,” Vegeta said, and after a moment, the boy handed the cup back.

When Vegeta returned for the second time, he held out the newly filled cup. “Slowly, this time,” he cautioned.

The boy hesitated again, but did as told, slurping down the water with more care. When he was done, the boy held the cup out expectantly.

“No more for now,” Vegeta said as he took it, “too much will make you sick.”

If the boy was disappointed at that, he did not let on, and silence fell once more. Vegeta thought desperately on how he could fill it, but his mind came up uselessly blank.

He did not think he had ever experienced a silence so uncomfortable in his life. For a silence to be awkward, that would imply that you cared for the second person's opinion. You cared if they thought you were boring, or so strange you could not manage to hold a single conversation. Vegeta had never cared about such trivial things. If he had something to say, then he would say it. If he did not, he would not waste his time trying to influence a person's inner thoughts of him.

He would not delude himself by denying that the boy's perception of him was important, and so far, the boy only seemed afraid. Vegeta supposed it was understandable, but that did not make it any easier to witness.

His own child was afraid of him. Once, such an outcome had satisfied him. He remembered the savage satisfaction he had felt every time teenage Trunks had glanced away from him, every second he had spent holding his tongue so as not to incur Vegeta's wrath. There was no such enjoyment here. There was a difference between his future son—nearly a man and strong in his own right—and the one before him. There was a difference between the man he had been then and the one he was now. 

He did not want the boy to cower from him. He did not want the boy to look at him like he was just another enemy.

The silence had gone on too long. He saw the moment when nerves overtook the boy. The hard lines started to shake; the hunched shoulders started to tremble. Vegeta cursed himself, wondering just how many times he would misstep before the day was over.

 _The boy does not know you_ , he reminded himself. _You are a stranger to him. How could he know that his lifetime of fear is over? How could he see he was free now, back finally where he was always meant to be?_

_How can he know these things if you don’t tell him?_

He cleared his throat. The boy tensed, but otherwise did not move. The boy was not looking him in the eye as he wanted, but he also was not hiding, so Vegeta supposed he would just have to take his wins where he could get them.

Despite his resolve, he still found himself at a loss for words. If he ever had a carefully planned speech to give, it was gone now, beaten down to nothing by the pounding of his own heart.

What should he say? There were certainly words that would be correct. Words that were made solely for moments like this, perhaps even this one moment here. Words that would explain what needed to be explained. Words that could amend what needed to be amended.

Whatever those words were, he did not know them. The more he pondered it, the more he doubted that such words existed at all. Even so, he must say something. Anything would be better than standing over the boy like the silent executioner he must seem to be. But how should he start? An apology? How would he phrase such a statement to encompass all that he must apologize for? What apology could he give that would make forgiveness worth it? How could he dare start with asking for something he did not deserve?

In the end, Vegeta decided to start with the truth. “I thought you were dead."

The boy said nothing, and Vegeta had not expected him to. Regardless, the twitch of his little ear told him he had his attention.

“He took you from me not long after you were born," he told him. "I had only held you once before you were gone. They told me you were dead, and I believed them. I believed them because I had no other option too.”

 _It hurt too much to believe otherwise_ , he did not say. Then he wondered why he wasn’t saying it. 

“It hurt too much to believe otherwise," he admitted. The words crawled out his throat, leaving a distinctly humiliated taste in his mouth. Again, he wondered why. They were just words. They were the _truth_.

He wondered abruptly why he let himself become this way. He was sure that at one point, he would have known the answer to that question without even having to think. He could only guess now that most likely somewhere in his subconscious he had thought it made him stronger to be so guarded with his thoughts. 

All he saw now was a coward who found being honest with his own child a _struggle_.

“I was not strong enough,” he said, and each word was the slow drag of a knife and he _hated_ it, but he said them. “My body was weak, then. Frieza took you from me and I couldn’t even put up a fight. And my mind...”

He took in a breath. He held it deep within his lungs. He let it go.

“My mind was even weaker.”

The boy was confused, Vegeta could see. He supposed he couldn't blame him.

“Saiyans by nature are warriors," he explained. "It is not a learned desire. Our lust for battle is built into our DNA. We are a passionate race, but we do not waste energy on small feelings. That is why the things we do care for, mean everything to us.”

Through the gaps between the boy's strands of hair, Vegeta could see the way his little brows furrowed. He still did not seem to understand what Vegeta was trying to say.

“I cared for power and I cared for strength. I cared for nothing else. I didn’t care for my comrades. I didn’t care for avenging my race. I cared for nothing except my own goals.”

Vegeta stared at him intently then. The boy did not look up, but he knew he could feel the weight of his gaze.

“But I cared for you."

The boy did not react at first. Vegeta watched as he dissected the words, watched as his eyes widened where they were still directed at his knees, when their meanings become clear.

"I cared for you so much, but I hadn’t even realized it until after you were already gone. At the time, I had never cared about anything else as much as I cared about you. Training, getting stronger, seeking vengeance... nothing compared to you, and that feeling... terrified me." 

He swallowed, trying very hard not to think about how he had just used such a word to describe himself. He pushed through. "I was terrified of what I felt. I was terrified because I already knew I would never be able to keep you.”

Still, the boy said nothing. He held his body almost impossibly rigid. Vegeta thought he might be laying too much on him at once. If it was hard to say, then surely it must also be hard to hear. Vegeta could not stop, though. If he stopped, he might not ever start again, and these words were far overdue.

“He took you from me before I even had a chance to know you, and yet it still hurt. I was a warrior. I had trained under soldiers twice my strength. I had lost my home and my father, and I lived each day under a tyrant’s control. I had felt a lot of pain in my life, but nothing compared to losing you."

Quickly, before the weight of his own words could slow him, he says, “So, I had to forget you. I couldn’t live every day of my life with that kind of pain festering inside of me. It was like everything that drove me—my ambitions, my passions, my goals—no longer mattered. Nothing mattered anymore except for the pain I was feeling.”

Vegeta paused to take a breath. He could not stop. He could not stop. He could not stop.

“I had no reason to think he would let you live." He reigned in the desperation that bleeds into his tone at that. He wanted the boy to hear the truth, not be swayed by his excuses. "And even if you were alive, you would always be out of my reach. The moment his hands touched you, you became his and that meant you could never be mine again. That thought, the pain of it, it was too much. it took something from me. I don't know how to explain it. It was..." 

After a moment, it clicked like a puzzle piece. "Whatever it is that gives life meaning... that’s what it took from me."

Outside, the impact of lightning against stone cracked in the air. Inside, it was quiet once more. 

The boy understood, Vegeta knew. He did not move still, did not look up, but Vegeta knew he understood what his words meant. He could see the thoughts that run across the boy’s face. There was a calculative nature to his expression as he took in each word. Then there was disbelief, but not from awe. It was incredulous, maybe even a little angry. 

_Liar,_ he read in the flash of the boy’s eyes when he peeked at the very alive and well body before him. _You did not destroy yourself in your grief. What do you gain from lying other than the satisfaction of hurting me? Does it please you to see me suffer?_

The words were too cruel to come from such a fragile boy, Vegeta thought. They sounded more like thoughts _he_ would have, but he did not doubt that the sentiment was still the same.

“I lived in spite of myself, as you can see. I kept moving forward but that was not without consequence. I couldn’t live with that kind of... grief every day, or at least, I thought I couldn’t. I couldn’t do what I needed to do if all I would ever think about was you. I needed to be able to move on, to refocus on my goals, and I couldn’t do that if you were constantly weighing on my heart."

One breath, then another. Then, "So, I let you go.”

He did not want to say this, but he had too. To not say it would be like a lie, and how many of those had the boy been fed in his life? Lies about his purpose. Lies about his destiny. Lies about his worth. Lies. Lies. Lies. Vegeta would not be another chain in the string of liars.

“I forgot what your face looked like," he admit bitterly, shame twisting like a knife in his gut. "I forgot the feel of your skin and the style of your hair. I forgot the sound of your crying and the way that you clung to me. I forced myself to forget you until I could no longer tell if you had ever even been real in the first place.”

Here, he nearly did stop. It would be too much, he thought. To speak this truth would only hurt the boy, he thought. These words would blow any chance of forgiveness to the wind, he thought.

 _No more lies_ , he thought. _No more lies_.

He closed his eyes, and said, "Even when Frieza was defeated for good, I did not spare a thought for you."

And there it was, a truth almost as ugly as its predecessors.

"At that time, I was in space, searching for Kakarot—a man I wished to defeat—and it never dawned on me to search for answers about you. I had heard about the collapse of the Frieza Force, about how many of his supporters were being imprisoned or executed, but I didn’t think of you once. I had forgotten you so well that I didn’t even remember there was something I had forgotten.”

Bile tickled at the back of his throat, and he paused long enough to fight it back. What must he sound like to the boy with the bruised face and skinny limbs and haunted eyes? What must he sound like when faced with the price of his own foolishness?

“But part of me remembered something of that pain, I think," he says, and the man he had once been would have denied it vehemently, but he was that man no longer. "I didn't let myself care about anything or anyone else for so long after you. I didn't care about my wife or my new son, because I couldn't let myself. I told myself that I would have always been that way, cold and distant even from my own blood, but it wasn’t true. I felt that way towards them because of how I felt for you. I could not bear the pain of losing them like I lost you."

Something changed in the boy's face. It took a moment for Vegeta to place it, but eventually he read it as something like dejection, something like resignation, something like the pain that came from a lack of understanding. He tried to imagine what the boy might be thinking. Perhaps he wondered why Vegeta would ever want to remember something that had hurt him so. Perhaps he could not understand why Vegeta would ever feel such a way at all for someone like him. 

_Why are you here now,_ the boy’s dull eyes said where his lips did not _, if all I did was cause you pain?_

Vegeta responded with nothing less than the truth. “I made myself forget you, and I regret that.”

The boy’s chest, which had been rising and falling with his breaths, stopped. The shock was not enough to make his eyes snap up in incredulity, but it was a near thing.

“Caring for you brought me a lot of pain, I can’t deny that. But the feeling itself...” he paused to gather his words. "I had seen the way people bonded with their children, and the way they treasured their lives over their own. I never understood that. I never understood the drive that led people to hold their children so highly in their hearts. I never understood how they could sacrifice everything for their children.”

_Vegeta leaned over the cradle and stuck his hands in. He fit them around its tiny body and lifted it out of the cradle. It was so light he nearly could not feel it._

“Then I held you, and I understood. I understood and that is why it hurt to lose you, but I hadn't understood that every second I had spent with you was worth that pain."

Vegeta leaned in closer, but the boy's eyes closed, like the loss of sight could hide him from the words that passed through his ears.

Vegeta told him anyway, “I regret burying you away because you deserved to be remembered. I let myself forget that."

 _Liar,_ he heard, like the word was spoken right into his ear. The boy's body was wound tense, and his hands clenched in fists around his pant legs. He looked like he was scarcely holding himself together.

Perhaps, if Vegeta was a better man, he would leave the boy be. He would close his mouth and let the silence take over. He would let the boy stew over what he had been told, let him process all the words that had been forced upon him thus far.

He was not a better man. He was a man who needed his son to _understand_.

“It was your eyes," he told him. "It was your eyes that reminded me of the baby I had held in my arms so long ago. Because you looked at me, I remembered everything I had tried so foolishly to bury away. Because you were brave enough to show me those eyes I will never forget, and I remembered just how much I love you.”

* * *

There was only one more ball left.

He was gaining on it like a hound on its prey, his speed so great that the radar's calibrations could not keep up. Just this last one and he could head back to the ship. Vegeta was there now, he knew. It was hard to tell with all the chaotic energy muddling his senses, but he was quite certain that that was him. His energy had arrived there not too long ago, alongside another lifeform so small it was nearly dwarfed by Vegeta’s own.

Vegeta had done his job, and it was only Goku now who held them back.

When he finally reached the area the radar had directed him too, he dropped out of the sky and onto the ground. The first thing his green eyes saw were the crumpled remains of buildings and houses that looked like shacks.

Then he saw the corpses.

In all the places he had looked, this one was the most decimated, the most decorated with lost lives. The dragon ball here must not have flown very far, it seemed. Whatever this place was, whatever it used to be, it must have had the honor of housing the dragon balls as they were activated and taken the full force of the explosion.

He stepped around several bodies and tried his best not to think about them. He tried not to think about how all these people died because their thieving leaders had tried to play with powers they didn’t understand.

_Easy for you to say, with your home filled with your friends and your wife and your sons and no threats to their livelihoods that could not be handled._

Yes, he supposed it was easy for him to say.

Goku clicked the notch on the radar several times, but the energy radiating in this Division was so great that the radar was now all but useless. He knew the ball was not very far, at least. He decided to go towards the right, lifting off the ground whenever the path became unwalkable. He rounded the corner of a barely intact building with brass doors and came face to face with the five-star ball—

—in the hands of a child.

He remembered Vegeta explaining that not all races aged the same way, so ‘small’ did not necessarily mean ‘young’. Even so, he was pretty sure that this one was a child. 

The child looked so small kneeling before him in the dirt. Even now he sometimes could not tell the difference between males and females, but the bald head made Goku think it might be a boy. Though the red, pinhole wounds covering his scalp told him that it had not always been bare, nor had it been a choice.

No child should ever be covered in so much blood, he thought with a queasy feeling in his stomach. Blood oozed thickly from a gash on his head. His pale skin was cracked and peeling around the sharp pink of burned flesh. One shoulder was dislocated, and both of his legs were broken, the white bones of his shins nauseatingly jutting out for all to see.

His head was bowed so Goku couldn’t see his eyes. All he could see was the way his tiny body swayed in the windless air, the tattered remains of his clothing, and the bright gleam of the dragon ball painted red from his bloody hands. There were no bodies lying directly near him—if he had had parents or guardians, they were long gone.

 _He is going to die_ , Goku thought.

“Um—” he started, even though he didn’t know what he wanted to say. The boy’s head lifted up at the sound, slowly, like his muscles could scarcely bear the weight. His lashes were long, and his eyes were the color of soft violet, the whites streaked with angry vessels. 

Despite gaining his attention, the boy hardly seemed to see him, his eyes near milky in their daze. Even so, something inside the boy must have known that Goku was there, that there was a person before him, seeing and acknowledging him. Perhaps just that thought was enough to give a nearly dead boy the last semblance of hope.

Dimly, with vacant eyes and a mouthful of blood he muttered, “ _He—lp me... please... don’t—don’t wanna die_.”

The boy was still mumbling, his soft words becoming increasingly intelligible the more he spoke. Goku wondered what kind of man could ever bring a child so low. He wondered what kind of man could ever stand to let a child know the horrors of death, especially one so gruesome.

_(He wondered what kind of man could be so hypocritical, as if he hadn’t sent his own son off to get his neck snapped, hadn’t watched the both of them moments before their deaths and did nothing to save them—)_

He supposed that in reality, he did not entirely know what kind of man he was. He knew that he was not the kind to blatantly turn his back when someone needed him, though, and he would not be now.

He sped over, so fast that he barely had a chance to finish a blink before he was already at the boy’s side. He forgot to be gentle when he lifted him, but the boy did not seem to notice, his lips still muttering their pleas for help. 

Goku’s hand, when it braced against his back, was immediately coated with blood. When he looked, he saw twin gashes, long and thick and undoubtedly deep—as if some body parts that had once been connected to him had been ripped out.

His stomach turned at the thought, just as panic started to set in. The boy had stopped mumbling, seeming to have fallen unconscious. At least, Goku hoped that was all. There was a very real possibility that he might be too late. This little life, despite how hard it held on, might be lost to this world after all.

 _No_ , he told himself. He would not give up, not yet, not while there were still breathing lungs and a beating heart.

He couldn’t fail this child. He _refused_ to fail.

He held the boy tighter, and flew as fast as he could back to the ship.

* * *

The boy stared at him.

He did not drop his eyes or avert his gaze. He stared at Vegeta with wide eyes, like it had not even dawned on him to be ashamed for it. He breathed like his heart was pounding too hard in his chest.

And yet he kept on staring. He stared like a deaf man hearing his first word.

And perhaps he was deaf, for all he had ever heard it. Just how foreign was that particular word to him? Not entirely foreign, at least; the look in his eyes clearly showed he knew the meaning.

Where had he heard that word before? Immediately, Vegeta realized how stupid that question was. The boy was blinded, but he could still hear. He could hear the way people around him spoke to one another. He could hear what lovers said to each other at the start of the day. He could hear what siblings admitted to one another in the moments when rivalries were set aside. He could hear what mothers whispered to their children at night.

Had anyone ever said that to him before?

Vegeta watched his breath become staggered and tears start to well, and he thought the answer might be ‘no’.

Vegeta kneeled before him. The boy’s eyes followed him all the down.

“I was not strong enough to protect you, then. But I am strong enough now,” he promised. “I’ve missed thirteen years of your life. I missed watching you become the person you are today."

The boy was crying even before the words were out. His eyes squeezed shut, but it did nothing to slow the deluge of tears.

"I’ll never get those years back, but I won’t miss anymore. I’m taking you home with me, and this time, I’ll hold on. I won’t let go. I will never let anyone take you from me again."

Sobs ripped from his little throat, hiccupping gasps surging in his chest, so powerful it was a wonder how his frail body could withstand it.

When Vegeta grabbed him and maneuvered him onto his lap, the boy did not pull away. He dropped his head onto Vegeta’s chest, went so far as to fist his tiny hands in the spandex. Vegeta wrapped his arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” Vegeta said, “I’m so sorry.”

And what about that? Was that another word the boy knew but had always been denied, had heard spoken to others but never to him, who deserved it the most?

The boy shouldn’t accept it. he should be angry. He should spit at those words that had come far too late. He should rage at even being offered words so meaningless, words that could never be enough to erase what had been done. That was what Vegeta would do.

But Vegeta did not know this boy, did not know if the boy ever had been or ever would be anything like him. He saw it now in the way the boy just sobbed harder and Vegeta felt his own tears begin to fall. 

How could he not? How could a man see his child in so much pain and not weep with him?

Vegeta tightened his arms around him even more, vaguely remembering to remain mindful of his injuries. He cried with him and felt no shame for it. He cried so hard his body shook. He let the trembles overtake him, let them loosen the shrapnel that pierced all around his heart. It was hard, like ripping open the aged scars of wounds that had long since healed. But they had healed wrong, a falsehood of health, and he had no use for lies any longer.

He held him and he cried, until the pain in his chest eased into an ache, until the weight started to lighten. When the boy stopped crying, he did not pull away, just laid there slumped against his chest. Vegeta wiped his own face with one hand and just held him.

Then the ship rumbled beneath them.

The trembling did not stop, and Vegeta had to bolt to his feet to keep from toppling over when the ship tilted. When he looked down, the boy was already looking back at him. For a flash of a moment he saw terrified, bloodshot eyes before a loud crash had him squeezing them shut in fear.

Vegeta dashed from the room and up the stairs. He jerked to a halt, then swerved to the side when the portion of the ceiling above his head caved in. when it settled, he flew up through the newly created hole.

Lightning attacked the world around him with such intensity that he nearly could not see from the brightness. In the short time since he had last left the ship, the world had become nearly new. Mountains that once stood tall in the distance were nowhere to be seen. What were once cliffsides were now little more than piles of rubble. The energy pulling the planet apart was so thick now he could taste it on his tongue.

He would not die today, not amongst the wreckage of this planet, nor in the cold vacuum of space. He would live this day and the next. He would live and so would the boy in his arms. There was so much life they had yet to experience, so many things to learn about each other, so many memories to make, and by the gods Vegeta would live to _see it_.

In the distance, amongst the burning white, he saw a glimmer of gold and he knew it was Kakarot. He flew to meet him. When he was nearly there, he held out one hand, and when their palms collided, they were gone with only seconds to spare, leaving behind the smoldering remains of what had once been Tene'mareen.

TBC


	24. The Beginning

Chapter Twenty-Three: _The Beginning_

In the blink of an eye, the suffocating heat, the thick and heady smell of ash and blood, and the deafening crash of lightning on stone vanished. In their places were cool air, the soft scent of a fresh breeze, and blissful, almost unnatural quiet.

Vegeta was hesitant to open his eyes, so jarred by the change that part of him worried Kakarot had not made it in time after all and they were now in Heaven, and if he did not see it, it would not be true. 

The fact that he was very unlikely to ever find himself in such a paradise once he died again gave him the strength to look at what was before him. Sure enough, it was not the endless plains of the afterlife he was met with, but rather the opulently grand building of The Lookout.

“Why did you bring us here?” Vegeta asked as his eyes squinted against the sudden switch in light intensity.

“Well, I—” Kakarot began, but did not finish. Vegeta turned to him, but the other man did not raise his eyes from where they were glued on his son.

If the boy noticed the attention, he did not say, only kept his head and face buried in his chest. _Vegeta_ noticed the attention, however. “Earthlings consider staring to be rude."

Kakarot blinked up at that. Before the man could respond, a call of, “Goku!” rung out through the air.

Both saiyans turned towards the source. Mr. Popo, Piccolo, and Dende had finally decided to make their appearance, it seemed. His snide attitude dimmed somewhat when he saw just how haggard the guardian looked, so unsteady on his feet that it was clear the only way he even managed to walk at all was the grip Piccolo had around his bicep.

“Dende!” Kakarot called back, sounding almost aghast. “What happen—"

“Give me the child,” Dende cut him off as he closed the distance, and Vegeta nearly moved until he realized that Dende was not speaking to him.

“Wha—”

“ _Give me the child_ ,” Dende repeated with haste in his voice as his unsteady hands grabbed at the bundle Vegeta somehow did not notice Kakarot was carrying.

Kakarot snapped out of his confusion and moved to properly settle the load onto the marble floor. Just as the guardian said, a child emerged from what had been a ball of curled up limbs. A mess of one, it seemed, with still bleeding sores painting its bald head, a face so battered hardly any of it was still pale, and a body full of bruises, exposed through the tattered remains of a uniform that looked just like his son’s.

It was that thought of his boy, and the sight of a golden glow emanating from Dende’s hands that made anger suddenly spike within him.

“What of my son?” he demanded. “He is injured as well. I think he takes precedent over a boy who should not even _be_ here.”

“Girl,” Dende said, as if that mattered, his voice sounding beyond tired around his labored breaths. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his temple. “She is... a girl. You—your son is not... in danger. But I... I could—I could feel her lifeforce slipping away.”

His anger was not dissuaded. He did not care for a strange child whose life was already forfeit, not when his own was still bleeding, still wounded, still suffering the pain those bastards had dealt him.

He opened his mouth again, more fiery protests ready to fly off his tongue, when Kakarot cut him off.

“Vegeta,” was all he said, his eyes looking both stern and pleading all at once. Vegeta knew instantly that this was the reason why Kakarot had brought them to the Lookout. Not for his son’s benefit, but for some girl he had happened to stumble upon.

That realization, and that Kakarot would even dare to take such a tone with him only made the heat of his anger worse. The only thing that stopped him from flying off the handle in that moment was the shift of the boy's head of matted hair on his chest. When Vegeta looked, he saw that the boy was now staring down at the girl, a contemplative expression on his face.

“Do you know her?” he asked, his skepticism clear in his tone.

To his surprise, the boy nodded. It seemed so farfetched that the boy would happen to recognize one girl out of the billions that must have lived on that planet, but the look in his eyes told him he wasn't lying, and he could not imagine why he would anyway.

Not that it seemed to matter either way. If seeing the girl in such a state affected him, the boy did not let it show. He watched the girl with a face that was utterly blank for a moment longer, before he turned away, tucking his face safely back into Vegeta’s shoulder.

Despite the revelation, such as it was, Vegeta was still not ready to let the matter drop. However, when he looked up, he was greeted with Kakarot still making _that_ face at him, so he snapped his jaw shut and looked away. Even he knew there was no point in trying to argue with him, not with an innocent’s life on the line. 

He did not bother asking why Kakarot brought the girl with him in the first place. Vegeta only needed to look at her battered body to know the answer to that. Privately, though, he wondered what the girl might have said, what the situation had been like for Kakarot to save her single, insignificant life above all the others there. 

He wondered, if it had been _him_ who had come across her, would he have done the same thing? 

He supposed he would never really know, but he thought that the answer was 'no'. He never had been, and he was sure he never would be the kind of man that the answer would have been a definite, resounding 'yes'.

Several minutes went by, far longer than he was sure Dende had ever needed to heal someone. Despite the time, the wounds hardly even seem to change under the golden light, and he wondered if perhaps her worst injuries were ones that the eye could not see. He knew for certain his own child had wounds he could not see.

Dende slumped to the side, so unexpectedly that Piccolo nearly did not have time to catch him despite their proximity. The guardian's eyes fluttered closed, and he did not immediately respond when Piccolo called his name.

The anger struck within him again, as well as a twinge of panic. “Dammit, Kakarot! Do you see what you’ve done?”

Kakarot did look a bit distressed, but Vegeta felt no satisfaction from it. He could not take the boy home now, not to the mediocre healers Earthlings contended with when something far superior was right before his eyes. Vegeta had not seen the state of his feet beneath the bandages, but he was not naive enough to believe they were not in a dire need of attendance. What if the doctors were not able to save them? That was not even mentioning the wounds that were on his back. How long would it take them to repair whatever was hidden from the eye on his back, and how bad would the scarring be?

All these unknowns, and all because Kakarot insisted Dende waste his energy on a child who should have been left for dead.

“Your son will be fine,” came Piccolo’s gruff voice. “Dende is just exhausted. He will drink something first and then heal the boy’s _dire_ injuries.”

Vegeta bared his teeth at him. Sure enough, though, Dende’s eyes started to flicker open. Piccolo repeated the plan of action to him, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I—alright,” Dende conceded, and Vegeta assumed that his easy surrender was probably supposed to be a testament to just how exhausted he truly was. 

To Goku, the guardian said, “The girl is not in danger of dying anytime soon,” and to Vegeta he finished earnestly, “I’m sorry about this, truly. I promise I’ll be quick.”

Vegeta sneered at him, but even he could recognize a battle he would not win. Acknowledging that did not make it any less infuriating.

Instead of trying to beat a dead horse, he turned abruptly to Mr. Popo. “Take me to a washing chamber.”

Mr. Popo blinked at him. He could feel the incredulous gazes of the others on his back as well. “Why?”

“If I’m going to be forced to wait, then I will attend to his hair," he said, quite sure that it ought to have been obvious. "I imagine you have some kinds of products here that might save it from being completely cut off.”

The deity swiftly recovered. “Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”

Vegeta trailed after him, leaving the others behind in still stunned silence.

"I'll check and see if Korin has any sensu beans!" Kakarot quickly called, before he could disappear into the building. Vegeta gave him no reply.

* * *

For as grand as the rest of the building was, the bathroom he was led too was surprisingly small. Aside from the bathtub with two sprayers jutting out from opposing walls inside of it, there was a marble sink with a long counter connected to it, and not much else.

“I’m going to put you down now,” he warned the boy, before setting his bottom onto the counter. For several seconds, the boy’s hands did not move from where they were clenched in his clothing. Vegeta cannot think of anything to do aside from wait, so he did. Eventually, the boy did let go, dropping his arm and eyes all at once.

During the ensuing silence, Vegeta considered the sink and the hard surface of the counter. He asked, “Will it hurt you too much to lie on your back?”

The boy watched him blankly and unblinkingly for a long moment, and Vegeta fought the ridiculous urge to squirm. He had meant it when he said he was not intimidated by the eye color, but that did not make eerily silent stares at any less unsettling.

Slowly, the boy shook his head. Vegeta was doubtful, though he supposed the boy would not really know until he had tried it. Vegeta told him how he wanted him to lie, and the boy complied—to the best of his ability, anyway. He moved slowly, like his body was tin and in need of oil, like every one motion was equal to that of a thousand. 

Vegeta was stuck frozen for a moment, watching the boy's face with something that was both awed and disturbed at once. The flinches that spasmed through his muscles equally affected his face. However, the moment the little wave of pain was over, his face dropped back into the abnormal blank expression it had held since they arrived here. It was like the pain was enough to invoke an involuntary response, but not enough to affect him any deeper than that.

Part of Vegeta thought that maybe it was better that way—that the boy was not truly registering the pain he was experiencing—but the majority of him was more than a little unsettled.

(It was not as unsettling as the realization that in all this time, the boy had not spoken a word. Not once.)

Already, Vegeta regretted the decision, but there seemed to be no point in turning back now. Vegeta moved to assist him, and though the boy's muscles tensed up at his touch, he did not resist. Not long after, the boy was laid flat on the counter, with his head dipped into the sink.

“Are you alright?” Vegeta asked when he saw the tight lines on his face. The boy only nodded, and like a stain, the expression was wiped away.

Vegeta could only hope that his own discomfort was not obvious as he reached over and grabbed the bottle of shampoo Mr. Popo had left—why it even existed in a building where none of the occupants had hair was beyond him—alongside a fluffy white towel. When he unscrewed the cap of the bottle, he was met with a soft, sky-colored liquid that smelled of fruit and flowers. The effeminate gentleness of the scent immediately irritated him, but another look at the knotted mess of the boy’s hair reminded him that he was not in a position to be picky.

“I’m going to turn the water on now,” he said. The boy nodded again and Vegeta dropped a hand onto one of the knobs and twisted it. The water that fell from the spout was too hot, so he quickly turned the second knob until the temperature evened out. If the boy noticed the difference, nothing in his demeanor gave him away. He had not even flinched when the water hit his scalp. He simply laid there with his eyes closed just a bit too tightly to be content.

For several moments, Vegeta just let the water run through the forest that was his hair. It was a repulsive sight, yet also morbidly fascinating to watch as only _some_ of the grime turned the stream of water to nearly black without even the aid of shampoo. When the color finally faded to a dull grey, he turned his attention back to the shampoo, and immediately felt out of his depth. 

He had never washed a child’s hair before, he realized. He was not sure he ever actually acknowledged that that was something parents did for their children. Even if he had, though, he doubted that Trunks’ thin, bone-straight strands would have prepared him for the lion’s mane before him now, and his own similar hair had never been neglected to such a degree. It seemed such a daunting task and he did not even know where to start.

“You should divide it into chunks.”

Vegeta whipped around so fast his neck bones creaked in warning. Kakarot was standing in the doorway, his face wary and unsure despite the casualness of his voice. Out the corner of Vegeta’s eye, he could see the boy’s body tense up once more. Vegeta was surprised that he had relaxed at all and was now annoyed that the other saiyan had ruined it.

At Vegeta’s look, Kakarot continued, “Gohan’s hair is thick like mine but gets real tangled like Chi-Chi’s. That was the easiest way to wash it when he was little.”

Vegeta said nothing, irritated at the fact that Kakarot would ever think he needed his advice. It was even more irritating that he followed the suggestion. He parted as much as he could with his fingers, trying his best not to pull too hard where the knots were particularly tight. When he had four, somewhat defined sections, he poured some of the shampoo into one and—with only a bit of reluctance—began to rub his fingers through the filthy mess.

“Were there no sensu beans, then?” he asked when the silence drew on too long.

“No,” Kakarot said. “Korin said that Yamcha and Gohan had been by and took them to try and help as many of the injured people as they could.”

Vegeta paused at that. “Injured people?”

Goku sighed. “Dende was not the only one affected by the dragon balls disappearing. Apparently, the whole planet was on the verge of collapsing.”

Vegeta thought of crumbling cliffsides, of fire and ash, of bodies strewn across stone grounds, of the rubble that was now floating through space where Tene’mareen once orbited. He imagined Earth the same way, and felt a chill go down his spine. 

He also felt the burgeoning weight of anxiety. It was irrational he knew—if something had happened to Bulma or Trunks he would have been informed, and in any case, he doubted there was anything this planet could throw at his younger son that he could not handle. Still, he knew the weight would not lift until he saw them with his own two eyes.

Kakarot must have mistook whatever look was on his face because he hastened to add, "Dende will still be able to help him, though."

Vegeta did not dignify that with a reply. He continued scrubbing, and Kakarot stopped talking. The other man did not leave though, and Vegeta tried his very best not to show how uncomfortable being _evaluated_ made him feel.

When he inevitably failed, he caved and asked the first thing that he could think of to fill the silence, "Why did you bring that girl?"

Kakarot blinked at him, seeming surprised at being addressed. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Vegeta continued, "You can't expect me to believe she was the only person on that planet you had come across. So why her? What made her so special that you saved her and no one else?"

Kakarot stiffened. Vegeta realized then that it had perhaps been a cruel question, but he had not really intended for it to be. He could not imagine why he ought not speak bluntly, and so he did.

"She asked me too," Kakarot eventually said, sounding as if he were trying to wipe the emotions from his voice. He was not succeeding. "She was begging me. And I... and I knew I would never forgive myself if I left her, especially not when I was already leaving so many others to..."

He did not finish, but Vegeta heard him loud and clear.

Kakarot, he knew, was not truly a heroic man. No man who put his own lust for battle over the fates of even those he loved could ever really be. He was a saiyan, after all. An odd one, un unorthodox one, but a saiyan nonetheless, and there would always be a hunger in his blood that he would stop at nothing to satiate. Vegeta knew all about that himself.

Even so, Kakarot was not cruel. Perhaps he did not intend to spend his days saving lives but if it was needed of him, he would do it.

Vegeta would be lying if he said he felt badly for the souls that had perished alongside their planet. It was a tragedy, of course; the planet had been a prison, but he was not so naive as to believe that every person had been a sadistic guard, or a criminal deserving of their sentence. There were many innocents, many children just like his own that had never deserved to suffer and die the way they had. 

Even so, there was no possible way they could have saved them and seeing as how Vegeta had not even been inclined to try, he was not particularly choked up about the countless lives he had left to die. Kakarot though... 

Vegeta was not sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. He let the silence grow until all that could be heard was the scratch of his finger pads against the boy's scalp.

After a while, he became so engrossed in his task that he nearly forgot the other man was even there. The soap must have been imbued with magic for how well it worked. It captured the grime from the strands like it was a magnet and loosened even the most tangled of knots. 

As he rinsed the soap away, though, clumps of hair fell away with the dark suds, so much so that it was a wonder the drain did not clog. He nearly panicked at the sight of it, contemplating all the ways he would torment that genie-man for causing his son to go bald, until rationality told him it was only pre-loosened hairs finally coming free. Or at least, it had better be.

All the while, the boy said nothing as Vegeta scrubbed through his hair. He only laid there, the tension in his closed eyes becoming less apparent as time passed. On his stomach rested his two hands in a manner that might almost be comfortable, though Vegeta would not delude himself into thinking the boy was at all eased.

It was that moment, while he contemplated the boy's hands of all things, that he noticed his fingernails. There were gruesome things—frayed and bloody and missing altogether on two fingers. Interestingly, though, he saw that the nails were pure black, the color was so rich it seemed almost painted on.

Vegeta furrowed his brow. Had they always been that way? Try as he might, he could not remember if the infant's nails had been colored in such a way. They must have been, though. Another thing he had forgotten.

 _Don't think about it_ , he told himself as he poured more soap into the boy's hair. 

He repeated this multiple times until finally the bubbles that fell from the strand were almost entirely clean. When he was done, he helped the boy rise. When the boy was settled, he then covered his hair with the fluffy towel, and rubbed his hands over it.

When he removed the towel, he saw that the soap had certainly done its job. The boy's strands straightened out properly into proud, downward spikes. There was a shine to the raven color that had not been there before, and though there were noticeable spots devoid of hair, Vegeta was confident that it would all grow back in time.

As he was running his fingers through to make sure all the knots had been dealt with, he heard the sound of Kakarot stepping towards him. The boy—who had been staring firmly at his own lap—tensed as the man grew nearer. Kakarot seemed not to notice, leaning in so closely over Vegeta's shoulder that he would have shoved him away had his hands not already been occupied.

Kakarot inspected him, then gave a low whistle, followed by a wide smile. "Looking good, kid!"

The boy jerked, like he had expected to be addressed but was still shocked that it had happened. His eyes darted up at Kakarot for less than a second before he dropped them down again, shifting a bit in his seat before settling once more. There was no way to tell, but Vegeta liked to think that the boy was pleased by the compliment.

In the next moment, Piccolo appeared in the doorway. Vegeta wondered what sort of sight they must make to the Namekian—the boy on the counter and Kakarot practically draped over his back. Vegeta refused to allow himself to be embarrassed, though he did give Kakarot a firm push.

"Dende will see him now," Piccolo said.

Vegeta straightened. He felt many things in that moment, many things all related to the home that was waiting below the clouds for them, but he wasted no time on pondering those emotions. Without a word, he scooped the boy back up into his arms, and followed Piccolo's lead.

* * *

One moment, he was taking in the palm trees and marble floors of the Lookout. In the next moment, he was standing on a concrete sidewalk, with the bright glow of the sun bathing his skin, and a dome-shaped building before his eyes.

Home.

The first thing he did was take in the city around him. Part of him had expected to see the same destruction that had befallen Tene'mareen, but thankfully that seemed not to be the case. An overpass had collapsed, he could see, and some buildings looked both damaged and vandalized, but the city as a whole looked for the most part intact. 

Vegeta could not say for sure as he had not seen the rest of the planet, but he figured it was safe to assume that Tene'mareen had taken the brunt of the destructive energy.

Unlike the morning they had left, the sky was clear and blue. The air was colder as well, and his arms reflexively tightened around the boy in his arms. The boy did not react, and Vegeta might have thought he was asleep if his breathing was not still so heavy.

The day was not over for him yet, though. In the end, Dende could not do much for him, he had healed what was most pressing internally and little more beyond that, just as he had for the girl. It was hard to be mad at the young Namekian, though, all things considered. It was hard to be angry at someone who looked so pitifully ill. 

(He had also appreciated that when the boy had refused to release him, Dende had simply scooted closer and healed him right there in Vegeta's arms.)

Vegeta knew he ought to just be grateful for the treatment the boy _was_ able to get. He could see that the gash on his head was no longer so deep, and the mangled mess that had been his right hand was no longer quite so gruesome to look at. Vegeta did not know what the injuries underneath the bandages had looked like (and he can admit that he really did not want to) but Dende assured him that the scarring would not be as bad as it could have been.

Not that the assurance did all that much at easing his mind. That there would be any scars at all was not something he could bear to accept. Still, Vegeta forced himself to focus solely on the positives, such as how when he had asked if the boy's tail needed to be removed, Dende had assured him that he had healed it enough for that not to be necessary.

In all honesty, it probably was illogical to keep the appendage there. It was not a particularly pretty thing (in truth, it looked almost uncomfortably like a genetic abnormality). It also was not a necessary body part, and despite its hairlessness there was still the possibility that it functioned the same way a saiyan tail did, which opened a whole other worm can of risks. Even so, Vegeta had been relieved that a removal would not be necessary. It did not seem right to start the boy's new life off by immediately taking parts of him away.

So no, the day was not over for him yet. He would need to be seen by the Earth doctors as soon as possible to prevent his persisting wounds from worsening. Eventually, though, he would rest.

 _Soon_ , he promised. _Soon you will rest._

Before Vegeta had a chance to bat him away, Kakarot immediately released his shoulder. Together, they floated off the concrete sidewalk and over the gate, before dropping their feet down onto the lawn. They walked towards the front door then, the both of them silent.

Or at least until Kakarot suddenly spoke. "Vegeta.”

He hummed in reply.

“Are we friends now?"

Vegeta’s steps froze. He could not help but to give the other man a disbelieving stare. “What?”

"Are we friends now?" Kakarot repeated himself as if he genuinely believed Vegeta had not heard him the first time, shifting his shoulder when the unconscious girl's head slipped a bit.

Vegeta's expression must reveal enough of his incredulity, because Kakarot carried on with, “I know you hated me for a long time. I also know that you still consider us to be rivals. But being rivals doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, and I was... I was wondering if we were... that.”

Vegeta blinked a few times, still not entirely grasping the question. Once he had, the first thing that popped in his head was a resounding _no_.

Then he thought for a moment. _Were_ they friends? 

Vegeta wondered, not for the first time, what even made a person a friend. That was not a concept he had any real experience in. Subordinates, he most definitely knew. He even knew of comrades in arms, but friends? 

What made a person a friend? What would make Kakarot _his_ friend?

Kakarot was a man he had never thought he would have to seriously contemplate. He had always seemed like a fairly simplistic person—a strong fighter with a devil-may-care attitude, and some gods-given gift that allowed him to always remain one step ahead of him in terms of power.

He was also a man who enjoyed collecting friends, apparently. Vegeta had observed and overheard enough conversations to know that almost all of Kakarot’s companions had been his enemy at one point. Vegeta had never been blind to the fact that Kakarot seemed to feel the need to project that desire onto him. He had always known exactly why Kakarot kept bothering him, egging him on for sparring matches and meaningless conversations alike.

Had Kakarot asked that same question even only three days before, his answer would have been certain. Vegeta did not like him, plain and simple. The man was annoying, and much pass the level of moronic allowed for his age. Just because he came to terms with him surpassing him, did not mean he had to put up with the goofy man's presence. Just because Vegeta was no longer actively trying to kill him, did not mean he wanted to have 'casual sparring matches' with him. Just because they were allies did not mean he wanted to speak with him as if they were.

Vegeta thought about the earthlings Kakarot called his friends. He thought of the way they hung off every one of Kakarot’s words as if he were a prophet. He thought of how they seemed to value him as if he were a gift crafted personally by the gods.

Vegeta would never do that, but somehow, he knew that was not what Kakarot was asking.

So, what was it then? Did he want someone he could spar with? Vegeta had sparred with many people in his life and considered not a single one of them a “friend”. Perhaps he wanted someone to spend time with? He thought of Bulma’s friends, the other high society women who came around whenever she threw her business galas and holiday parties. From what he had overheard of their conversations, it seemed that all they did was gossip, talk about fashion, and complain about their spouses. He doubted conversation with an overbearing, annoying oaf like Kakarot could be any more engaging.

He thought of the past few days. He thought of impractical things, like Kakarot staying up throughout the day and night with him on the ship. He thought of necessary things, like him chasing the dragon balls all over the planet so Vegeta could do what needed to be done. He thought of little things, like the advice he gave him while he washed his son’s hair.

Vegeta thought of how he had not needed him, had not even asked for him, but he had still been there for him in ways no one beside his wife ever had.

“I don’t like you, Kakarot,” he said, “but I don’t hate you. If that is enough for you to call someone a friend, then I guess we are.”

Kakarot blinked at him. Then a blinding grin took over his face. He was seemingly quite satisfied with the answer. The fact that the smile did not leave his face once as they continued on towards the house, was a testament to that.

If Vegeta had any urge to smile back, it died the moment they reached the front door, and the sound of voices reached his ears. He crossed under the threshold, and followed the sound, until he was standing just before his living room and staring at what seemed to be just about all of the Z-fighters.

The group fell quiet, their collective attention now on the saiyan duo. Before anyone could speak, a loud cry of, "Daddy!" suddenly rung through the room.

On the couch, nearly bursting from his seat, was Kakarot's youngest. His eyes were wide and glued on his father, anxiety, relief, and fear warring to monopolize his face. Vegeta still feels every time he saw him. He did not think he had ever seen a child look so much like their parent, and he wondered, oddly enough, if Kakarot had ever made an expression like that.

He thought the answer was no, as Kakarot seemed not to know what to do with such a look directed at him.

"Goten?" he settled with saying.

The boy blinked a couple of times, his lips twitching like he was struggling for words. Finally, he said, "I thought you weren't coming back."

Out the corner of his eye, he could see Kakarot's face fall. "Of course I came back, bud. I said I would."

The boy seemed to consider this, before he abruptly leapt from his seat, crossed the room, and threw his arms around Kakarot's torso, seemingly unaware of the bundle the man already had in his arms.

Kakarot seemed just as lost as he was before, like an old computer taking too long to load. Eventually, he snapped out of whatever fog had taken hold of him and wrapped his free arm around his son.

Vegeta trailed his eyes away, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at witnessing such a scene, and considered the other people who had taken up residence in his home. On one couch sat Krillin, the android, Yamcha and his floating cat creature. Next to them was Gohan, who was smiling at the sight of his father and brother. Beside him was Kakarot's wife, with a facial expression Vegeta could not place. She was not frowning but not smiling either. She simply seemed to watch, and if she was happy at her husband's return or still angry that he had left at all, her face was not at liberty to say.

Vegeta looked back to the boy who could not look more like his father if he tried. For a moment, he imagined Trunks, but with blue hair and a face like his mother's. Then he imagined her gone, lost somewhere he could not reach her, and himself left with a child who was like her in every way but would never truly be her.

He stopped imagining it.

"Dad!" he heard. When he looked over, he saw Trunks looking back at him, a wide smile brightening his face. He slipped off the couch and bounded over towards him, though before he could reach out and grab onto the free hand at Vegeta’s side, the bundle in his arms stiffened. 

The boy’s arms tightened painfully around him, a palpable sense of fear practically radiating from his tense muscles. A whine started to fill the room, low at first but growing louder and more distressed as each second passed.

"Dad?" Came Trunks' voice in uncertainty, as he took a step back. 

Vegeta could feel the weight of every eye on him, and he knew the boy could too. Questioning and concerned, they were, and far too many at once.

“Bulma,” Vegeta said through his gritted teeth.

"Come on," she said, taking his free hand to drag him out of the living-room, with Kakarot following close behind, leaving several stunned faces in their wake.

* * *

"I told the medical staff to be ready for your return. They already know the situation," she told them, her voice almost drowned out by the force of their steps against the linoleum floor. She glanced back at Kakarot, and the limp child in his arms. "Though I only told them to prepare for one."

"Sorry, it was... spur of the moment." Vegeta knew his wife had been hoping for more of an explanation, but it seemed that that was all she was going to get. "You don't think she'll be too much trouble, will she?"

"No, she'll be fine," she said, quite pointedly not looking at the boy Vegeta struggled to hold. He was sure hardly anything would seem like trouble compared to him in this moment.

In the span of a minute, the stiffening had become all-out thrashing, his body bucking and legs kicking so forcefully Vegeta actually had to use a bit of strength to keep them still. Worse than the thrashing, though, was the noise, no doubt. The whines had abruptly been abandoned for ear-piercing shrieking, the sound of it bouncing off the walls and back again over and over, until Vegeta was sure his ears would never recover from the onslaught.

He had to try very hard not to show the panic he was feeling. Had he hurt the boy somehow? Vegeta had not held or touched him in any particularly rough way, he did not think, but he must have. Why else would the boy be screaming like this: like the world was falling down around him, like he would never know peace again?

Thankfully, the speed of their steps meant they bypassed nosy coworkers with relative ease, and they reached the medical wing quickly. They rounded the corner as one, and Bulma sped forward to open the glass doors into the wing.

They were met by a crowd of white-coated doctors. Suddenly, they were surrounding him, their gloved hands seeming to touch everywhere on his body they could reach. When he felt the boy's body being pulled from his arms, he nearly fought against it. He calmed once his eyes caught the gurney, and he reluctantly loosened his arms until the boy was gone from them entirely.

The doctors struggled with the thrashing boy, and in the end, Vegeta had to assist them in strapping him to the gurney. The boy did not stop fighting and screaming, his limbs straining against the metal bands that reminded Vegeta uncomfortably of shackles.

"What is that?" Vegeta demanded with a hard gaze at the salt and pepper-haired doctor before him, who stepped forward with a needle in hand.

"A sedative," the doctor replied. "Please hold him as still as you can Mr. Vegeta. I need to make sure I insert it correctly."

Vegeta tightened his grip around the boy, and the doctor promptly slid the needle into his bicep. At first, the boy did not even seem to notice, until eventually his body began to cave to the drug. 

He looked up at Vegeta then with wide eyes, terrified eyes, betrayed eyes.

Vegeta’s stomach twisted. “These are healers,” he assured him. “Doctors. They are going to help you. Sleep now, and I promise I will be here when you wake.”

The boy’s eyes brimmed with uncertainty, before the haze of sleep glazed over them. The boy's lashes settled on his cheeks and he was gone.

"His back is wounded!" Vegeta exclaimed as the doctors began to wheel him away. “And his feet! And his head!” Vegeta hastened to add.

One of them had the grace to nod at him, before they all disappeared into one of the rooms. Vegeta nearly followed when a nurse halted him.

“We need to examine him first. We will send for you when he can accept visitors," he said.

Vegeta wanted to snarl. He wanted to tell him to go to Hell with their rules. He was the Prince of all Saiyans and would not be told which places he could and could not go, not when it was _his_ son in there. Every moment that passed without him in his sight was a moment too long, and they expected him to just _sit_ here while they put him under their scalpels and knives and—

“He’s safe now, Vegeta,” he heard Bulma say, her voice the eye of the storm raging through his thoughts. “He’ll be fine. Come. Sit with me?”

He did not want to. He wanted to keep arguing, to make that nurse and those doctors and anyone else who questioned his devotion to his son. Why else would they keep him from being by his side, if they did not believe he truly wanted to be there?

In the end, he did not argue. He followed Bulma to the set of chairs just by the front doors. He noticed, belatedly, that Kakarot was already gone.

They sat, and though her voice had calmed the storm, it had not dissipated it. His leg bounced, just light enough that the floor did not crack underneath his heel. The heat of anxiety swirled in his chest, and his eyes would not move from where they were pinned on the door they had taken him behind. Despite the intensity of his stare, the boy did not reappear, healed and smiling and finally okay.

"I wasn’t expecting him to be so small," Bulma eventually said, when the silence went on for too long.

Vegeta wondered how many people were going to keep mentioning how tiny his son was, as if he somehow managed not to notice, or had and had thought it was perfectly normal. 

He nodded in reply.

Bulma was silent for a moment, before she asked, "What is his name?"

"Why are your friends here?" he asked in turn.

That he had not answered her question did not go unnoticed, but aside from an unreadable look, she said nothing of it. “I... invited them."

Vegeta nearly wheeled on her. “ _Why_?”

“I knew everyone must have been freaking out about all the disasters that were suddenly happening," she said, defensively. "I wanted to tell them what was going on.”

Anger sparked within him, but he managed to keep a strong enough hold on it. It would seem that he had nearly perfected that skill over these past few days. “What have you told them?”

“I told them that he was your son, and that he was on the planet where the dragon balls were taken. I figured it wasn’t something that we could hide. I didn’t tell them anything else.”

He bit back a growl. “It’s none of their business.”

“Maybe not,” she said, “but they are always going to be around, you know. His existence isn't something we can hide. Don’t you think it would be best to at least tell them something?”

In response, he said nothing. He tried to imagine doing what she asked. He tried to imagine walking into that room, looking into all those eyes, and saying... everything.

He did not know what to say to make her understand just why he truly, earnestly, desperately did not want to do that.

He tried: "And how do you think your friends will react to learning his father is Frieza? I think the boy has had enough of being judged for that."

"That's not what I meant. I'm not—I'm not saying that's something they need to know. I just meant that perhaps we could just—just explain the situation a bit more. I meant it when I said I told them hardly anything. They'll be confused if we say nothing." 

She paused for a breath, then gave him a look out the corner of her eye that he could not completely decipher. "And even if you did tell them who... who fathered him, you know they would not react that way, right? They are good people, you know that. They would not treat a child badly just because of who his father is."

He thought of Yamcha and the one called Tien, standing over his future son's body as his heart stopped, carrying his corpse away from the line of fire into safety, even though there was nothing left inside of it to protect—

He said nothing.

After a moment, he heard her sigh. “I don’t mean to pressure you. If you don't want to say anything, then we won't. You're right that the circumstances of his birth are not their business. I only got a glimpse, but from what I saw, he doesn’t look like—like Frieza," she stumbled over the name, like she was unsure if she should say it or not, "so it’s not like it’ll be obvious or anything. His... behavior may be harder to explain but I'll come up with something."

She placed her hand over his. He did not snatch it away.

"I understand why all of this might not be easy to talk about, and I would never force you to do so," she said, her tone nothing less than truthful. "If you _do_ want to tell them, though, I'll be right there. We'll do it together."

His hand clenched into a fist where it rested on his thigh. She did not pull away. Instead, she covered it fully with her palm, like a shield against the line of fire.

Perhaps that was what did it. The soft tone in her voice, the way she carefully calculated her words, the fact that she felt _she_ needed to protect _him_.

Whatever it was, it gave him the resolve to do what did not need to be done but would be done anyway.

He looked back at the door, the last tether keeping him here and far away from the task he had no desire to do. He was reluctant to leave, already feeling too far away where he was now, but he knew that the doctors would not allow him in for some time.

 _He will be fine_ , he told himself. _He will be fine._

Vegeta stood to his feet. His wife, to her credit, did not try to offer him useless platitudes and encouragements. She was silent as she followed him down the hallway they had just come from.

He would not hide his son like he was something to be ashamed of, he thought vehemently.

He would not hide from _them_ like a coward, he decided furiously.

He would not hide from the truth ever again, he promised true-heartedly.

TBC


	25. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s ridiculous how long this chapter is, especially since it was split off from chapter 23...

Chapter Twenty-Four: _The Boy_

_Behold, He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see Him, even those who pierced Him, and all the tribes of the earth will mourn because of Him. So shall it be._

—Revelations 1:7

Vegeta was not sure how long he had been waiting in the lobby of the medical wing—the now darkened sky being his only point of reference—when, finally, the same doctor with the salt and pepper hair told him he was permitted to enter the room if he so wished.

He wasted not a second, even though despite the permission he only served to be in the way. Doctors dressed in plastic suits with clear shields over their faces flitted around the boy, poking and prodding at him with devices Vegeta could not see from where he stood in the corner. They had advised him to wear such protective gear as well, to which he replied with promises of bodily harm to any who tried to force him into such ridiculous clothing. He was a saiyan warrior, not a weakly human, and in any case, there was no disease or illness his son had that he was unwilling to bear himself.

(And he had lots of them. Lots and lots of them. So many it was a wonder how he functioned at all. So many they were certain he would not have survived untreated for much longer.)

Eventually, the doctors began to filter out one by one. As much as Vegeta had wanted them gone, he just as equally felt displeased by their leaving. How could they be so sure that the boy was in a stable condition? Certainly, once they were gone, the boy would be in need of their medical expertise and they would be too far away to help. They knew this and still dared to leave anyway?

They promised that they were close by and would be alerted if the boy needed attention. They told him that any such event was unlikely. They believed the boy would not be waking again this day.

_"Well, since no one else seems to want to ask this," Krillin said, an uncomfortable laugh coloring his words, as one seemingly often did when he was opening his mouth even when he knew he should keep it closed. "Who was that kid you were holding?"_

It had taken some choice words from Bulma to keep Trunks away from the sickroom. Vegeta had honestly been quite surprised that Trunks wished to see the boy so badly. In retrospect, he supposed that that was an odd thing to be surprised by, but he knew his son well enough to know that he preferred to be entertained by any and everything he spent his time with. Surely, he knew there would be nothing fun about visiting a not even conscious patient, that of whom he did not even know.

Perhaps it was even more ludicrous to assume that he would not want to see the boy who was apparently his elder brother with his own eyes. 

_He was honest. He said that the boy was his son._

In any case, Bulma had dealt with it, a feat Vegeta was simply incapable of doing at the time, not when his mind was so feeling so numb it was a wonder he had any thoughts at all. She had made declarations about long journeys, and tiredness, and the inability to heal while pestered by energetic little brothers. She had declared it was time for bed, to which the child groaned at, complaining of the unfairness of designated sleep times. Vegeta graced him with a hand on top of his lavender head for a moment, which made the child smile. Then Bulma had taken him away, and Vegeta had been alone ever since.

He wondered if he was the only one who, even now, was still jarred by the thought of Trunks being a "little brother".

_The first response had been a harsh one from Yamcha, who was under the impression that Vegeta had been an unfaithful husband. It was Bulma who clarified that the boy had been born before they had ever even met. Yamcha had the grace to look sheepish. The nerves prickling hotly in his stomach prevented Vegeta from doing much of anything._

Night had fallen quite some time ago. The room was not truly dark, though, despite the unlit bulb on the ceiling. The north facing wall was not really a wall at all, but a window from ceiling to floor, overlooking a patch of the front lawn, several buildings making up the backdrop. The bright, nearly full moon in the cloudless sky, and the lights of the West City nightlife blended together to illuminate the tile floors and plaster walls of the room. It was an interesting combination of man and nature, he thought. Ethereal and worldly all at once.

_They were shocked, and he told himself that was understandable. He told them that he had thought the boy was dead. He told them—in a tone he hoped did not imply he was defending himself—the moment he learned otherwise, he went to find him. Kakarot had jumped in then, regaling the tale from his point of view. He, at least, had enough sense to know which parts should remain unsaid._

Vegeta reclined in his chair by the bedside, and looked down at where the boy slept, his little body a beacon against the stark white sheets. The boy's body was completely clean now, every trace of dirt and blood eradicated from his pasty skin. Vegeta could now properly see the bruises around his eyes, from exhaustion and assault alike. He had bruises everywhere, it seemed. Even so, the boy slept peacefully, every worldly pain finally out of reach, if only for a little while.

_It was only to be expected that they would next ask who his mother was._

Part of his hair had been shaved so the gash on his head could be properly stitched. Marring his exposed chest and arms were IV tubes, held down by stickers and connected to even more tubes. Under the blanket drawn down to his waist, Vegeta knew that his right leg was completely hidden by a plain cast, as were his wrists, tail, and feet. Bandages covered most of his minor injuries. Stitches were present in many places aside from his head as well, including his cheek, and diagonally through his eyebrow.

 _Immediately, Vegeta’s hackles raised, and his skin felt hot with mortification. How could it not? Was there anything more emasculating than being someone’s_ mother _?_

Strapped to his face was a clear oxygen mask. On the front of it was a print of a cartoon penguin, with happy blue eyes and its orange beak bent in a resemblance of a smile. Even he knew it was a bit age-inappropriate, but he supposed the doctors could not help but to think of him as a young child, not when his body size and little face seemed to say otherwise. They probably hoped the design would be a comfort to him, as it supposedly comforted other children. Vegeta thought it was ridiculous, as were most of the ways humans coddled their young. As if a cute design would make painful treatments, or debilitating illnesses, or the potential of death any easier to bear.

 _Briefly, he thought to lie. But how could he, especially when both Bulma and Kakarot knew the truth? How could he, when he had promised that he would not allow his son to be tainted by the poison of shame any longer? He could he, when the boy was a prince, one of the last of the saiyan race, and should be proud of that no matter how he had gotten here? How could he, a prince and a warrior and a man who cherished his children, allow_ himself _to feel the weight of shame for this?_

Vegeta tried to put it all aside: the bruises, the stitches, the stupid mask, the still too-small body that could not be healed by anything but time. He tried to think only of the positives, few as they were. The boy was alive, was he not? 

_"He was born through me."_

He could have just as easily not been. He could have died on their operating table. He could have died while he waited for Vegeta to come for him. He could have died before Vegeta ever even knew there was someone who needed saving. He hadn’t though. He was alive. 

_No one laughed. That surprised him. He knew that if he had heard such a thing, he would have filled the room with an uproar of his humor. It was hard to be amused when you were shocked, in disbelief, he supposed. It was hard to be amused when his face said there was nothing to be amused about at all._

Still, it was hard to look at him, at peace or otherwise. It was hard to look at his bruises and scars and wasted muscles and sunken skin. It was hard to look at him and know that if things had been different, he might have been a rather handsome boy.

_Eventually, there had been questions. Mainly from Gohan, who seemed unable to wrap his head around the concept. Vegeta himself could give no real details on the seemingly anatomical impossibility, and he was not inclined to try._

Vegeta looked down at him again. It was a wonder how the boy's tiny head had not been entirely swallowed by the thick pillow beneath it. He trailed his eyes down and saw that the bumps of his feet beneath the blanket did not reach anywhere near the end of the mattress. Thirteen years, and this was all his body amounted to.

_It was Yamcha who asked who the other father was._

How different would he have looked if in those years he had known nothing but full bellies and warm baths and peaceful sleeps under the stars? And what about... deeper? What about the boy he was on the inside? What would he have been like then?

_He did not care what they thought of him, Vegeta told himself._

What would he have been like if his hands had never known the handle of a pickaxe, if his tongue had never known the taste of meager rations, if his ankles had never known the weight of chains?

_He did not care._

What would he have been like if he had had someone to dry his tears, had had someone to pick him up whenever he fell, had had someone to hold him every night before he fell asleep?

_He did not care._

What would he have been like if he had known kind words and blue skies, had known that no scratch or bruise would last forever, had known that no nightmare would ever see the light of day?

_He did not care._

What would he have been like if he had had reasons to smile, to laugh, to look forward to every new morning because it held the promises of the future?

_(He knew that was a lie.)_

What kind of boy would he have been, what kind of _man_ would he have grown to be, if his heart had known love?

 _“Frieza.”_

He snapped away from his thoughts when the sound of a small groan reached his ears. 

His eyes darted up to the boy’s face. The hold the medication had over him was still quite apparent, but it seemed that the doctors had underestimated his strength. That angered Vegeta, worried him. What other things had those doctors "underestimated"? He wanted to storm from the room, find each and every doctor that handled the boy, and demand they reexamine him, but his body stayed rooted to the spot, entranced by the boy as he fought against the hold of the drugs. Beneath the mask, Vegeta could see his lips slowly opening and closing, like he was trying to chew something thick and heavy. His eyelids flickered as if it were a battle to open them, the red of his eyes flashing on and off against the glow of a billboard several streets down. 

Eventually, he managed to hold them open—for several seconds at a time anyway. His eyes trailed in a slow circle, from the wall where the television was mounted, to the creme ceiling, then finally to where Vegeta sat beside him. His eyes did not widen, nor did he flinch away, as he often seemed to do when suddenly underneath Vegeta’s attention. It seemed that the drugs allowed him to do little more than to stare at him, with a gaze so glazed over it was almost as if he did not see him at all. 

The boy _could_ see him though, was aware of his presence, because once he had his sight on him, he did not look away. He looked at Vegeta with that same blank stare, still unnerving even within the haze of anesthesia.

The silence stretched between them. If the boy wanted to be spoken to, he gave no indication. His barely focused gaze seemed content to just stare at him. Vegeta, however, could hardly bear the silence, and looking at him, Vegeta found himself suddenly hit with a wave of disbelief. 

The boy was _here_ , right before his eyes. He could see him, could hear the sound of his breathing under the mask, could smell the scent of antiseptic that clung to his skin, and yet he could not believe it. In his mind's eye, the boy was far away and growing farther. He was growing so far away that he almost could not see him any longer, like he was a dream that Vegeta remembered less and less as each second passed in wakefulness.

He was hit abruptly with the desire to reach out, to feel him underneath his fingers, to ensure that he was truly _there_.

His first instinct was to _not_ do that, the heat of embarrassment already burning underneath his skin just from the thought. Then, after the initial wave of mortification had passed, he thought, why not? Was it not the goal to be more gentle, more outward with his affection? 

Trunks, he was sure, was aware of the deep regard Vegeta felt for him. He had been distant, had indeed only held him enough times he could count each time, but he was not so awful that Trunks had to doubt what he meant to his father, he was sure. The boy before him, however, did not. How could he, when Vegeta had never had the opportunity to prove it? 

Vegeta was not at a point where he could allow himself to say the words out loud—just the thought made his tongue tie in a knot—but he could at least try to show it, right?

He laid a hand on the boy’s hair. His little eyes widened the slightest bit, but nothing more. Vegeta ran his hand slowly over the boy's hair, long since dried from the washing of earlier. The strands were brittle, partially from genetics but mostly from neglect. Another thing—like the bruises, and the broken bones, and the diseases in his blood—that would need to heal.

Suddenly, a wave of protectiveness soared through him. It was odd, and unnecessary, there were no enemies or threats, yet he felt it all the same.

The boy’s eyes began to drift close, seemingly soothed by the light stroking. Vegeta stilled his hand, nestled it solidly on his head in a grounding touch. 

He asked, “How do you feel?”

Just as all the times before, he received no answer, though he had not truly expected one. The boy’s eyes _did_ open with a more clear, focused gaze, so Vegeta decided to take that as: “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”

The silence that came next was a peaceful one, like being submerged just underneath the surface of a calm sea. Not even seconds into it, the boy’s eyelids started to drop again, his eyes crossing in a way that one might call endearing every time he momentarily lost the battle. 

Now would be the perfect time to leave. The boy was at peace for now, and Vegeta himself was not being spared from exhaustion's pull. Almost all at once, several days with no sleep, and the long hours of training with only a nap as a recovery hit him with unforgiving force. He knew that he should return to his and Bulma's bedroom to finally rest, and leave the boy to his, but his body stayed rooted to the chair. 

He could not leave yet. He just couldn’t. How would the boy react if he woke up alone, and no longer tempered by the medication? How could Vegeta sleep—several hallways and floors away on his memory foam mattress while the boy slept alone on what was only a step above a cot—when his mind still could not be sure that all of this was not just a merciless dream?

There had to be more to say, he thought, more truths to reveal and discover. In reality, he knew there were not—there was no need for any further words, especially when the boy could not even keep his eyes open. He had said all that he needed to say back on Tene'mareen, or at least, everything he could say. There was nothing else he had to offer.

Still, he did not leave. How could he possibly leave, when even with the boy laying right next to him, he felt unfulfilled?

It was an awful thought, even he knew. The bitter taste of guilt made sure he knew it. How could he feel unsatisfied? How _dare_ he? He had rescued his son, had the boy laying here, in his home, safe and perhaps not whole but not broken either. That should be enough.

But it wasn't enough. He did not know what, but something was still wrong, still missing, still unresolved.

He searched for something to say, though try as he might, he came up blank. His eyes darted around the room once more, trailing up the walls until they landed on the air vent of all things—a grey grate with trails of dust blowing away from it. He thought that it was sort of odd that it was on. The part of Earth they lived in had not yet reached the point of snowfall, but it had grown considerably colder. There was no reason why the artificial air needed to be on, and it was only then that he noticed there as a bit of a chill to the room.

He froze. Then, the same heat of anger he had long since welcomed back into his normal daily life pulsated once more.

He knew that word, that one innocent word, was ruined for him forever.

Frieza had to have done it purely to spite him, Vegeta thought, irrationally, but no less certainly. Why else would he have done it? Why else would he have given a half-bred bastard a name of his origin if not only to make Vegeta's very blood boil?

It was something he would never know, just as he would never know why Frieza had allowed the boy to live at all. The latter he was forever thankful for, but the former...

His anger must have shone on his face, or perhaps affected the gentleness of his hand, for the boy's contented look suddenly fell away. It was replaced by a look that was nearly wary, as much as it could possibly be given how high in the clouds the boy must be floating around now.

Vegeta quickly resumed the hair stroking until his body relaxed and his face softened again.

The boy seemed to have moved past the moment, but Vegeta still felt as though he needed an explanation. Part of him also just felt the need to say it. “I didn’t mean to unsettle you. I had just been thinking about rather unpleasant things.”

The boy’s eyes widened again, and through the milky haze, Vegeta could see the sparks of curiosity. 

Vegeta hesitated, but only for a moment. He wasn't quite sure how his son would take this topic, but he was never one to beat around the bush. He bluntly stated, "I was thinking about your name."

A beat passed, and then the boy's whole body stiffened. Sort of. Given the drugs, it looked more like all his muscles twitching at once, but it was more than enough to communicate his unease.

Vegeta knew that he probably should stop, let the conversation die here and now. Why should he burden the boy—who was so injured it was only the morphine in his system that allowed him any sort of contentment at all—with the ill thoughts of his mind? Particularly thoughts that were beyond the boy's control, and not within his own rights to disrelish. He may not like the name, but it was the boy's all the same and it had been for thirteen years. That was something—like the flinches and the muteness and the scars—that Vegeta was going to have to accept. 

Still, Vegeta had to explain. Even if it would change nothing, he _needed_ the boy to understand.

"I did not choose it," he said, even though the boy ought to have known at least that much. He carried on, trying not to think about how much his next words might hurt. "I'll be honest with you. When I held you that one time, to give you a name had not even crossed my mind."

He forged on, before the guilt could lock his tongue. "Why Frieza chose to give you an Ice-jin name, I couldn't say. It angers me, though."

He knew that he probably should have used the past tense. _Angered_. How must the boy feel to know that he, of all people, hated his name? His name, that was perhaps the only thing that had ever truly been his own?

But to say otherwise would have been a lie. It angers him. It _angers_ him. It makes his blood boil, like an oven just before it burned everything to the ground.

If that shocked the boy, his face did not show it, though his face was not showing much at all in this moment. There was something in his eyes, though. Attentiveness, intrigue, uncertainty, it seemed. He looked like someone who had something to say but could not find the words to say it.

Vegeta furrowed his brow. "What is it?"

As expected, the boy said nothing. He only looked back at him with his two bright eyes. Vegeta thought that he could hear the words he was not saying, regardless. He thought that maybe, he knew exactly what it was that the boy wanted to say.

Vegeta leaned forward. "If I had named you," he prompted. "I would have given you a proper name. One befitting what you are: a prince of the saiyans."

There was a shine in his eyes, from the moonlight and something else. Something like wonderment, Vegeta thought. Vegeta leaned in even closer. The metal bars of the hospital bed creaked underneath his hands. 

"Would you like that? If I gave you a new name? One you deserve to have?"

One long, long moment passed.

Vegeta was not sure who was more surprised when the boy's little, bruised chin dipped in a small nod. There was hesitancy in his eyes, but they said 'yes' too.

Perhaps Vegeta was the most surprised, for the shock rendered him speechless for so long that the boy's face began to fall, the most panic that the drugs would allow beginning to take hold.

Vegeta said quickly, "Alright then, I'll give you one."

He turned away then, his eyes going back towards the window wall. He watched everything that moved beyond the glass—the blowing leaves on the trees, the flashing lights of electric advertisements, the raucous bar-hoppers looking for more trouble to get into—as he thought very hard. 

Now that he had permission, he was not going to hesitate, but what would he change it too? It was reprehensible in retrospect, but truly, during that short time he had held the baby, the concept of a "name" had not even crossed his mind. Now here he was, thirteen years later, coming up short on something so important.

Tradition dictated that the eldest child of the ruling monarch or crowned heir be named 'Vegeta'. It was only right that they inherit the name of the kingdom that was their blood right, after all. That should have made it simple. The boy was his firstborn and by all laws of succession, if there was still a throne to pass down, it would be his. His name, by all rights, should be 'Vegeta'.

But how could he name him 'Vegeta' when he already had a son with that very name?

Technically, Bulma—a non-royal and non-saiyan at that—had had no right to name her then-bastard child such a thing, especially not to name him that and expect it to hold any weight. Vegeta had allowed it though, because to put up a fuss would have implied that he cared at all, and it had seemed so very important to him to maintain that lie.

And in all actuality, no matter how awful a truth, Trunks _was_ his first son. 

Not in birth, of course, but in every other aspect, he had come first. Even when he wanted nothing to do with the family he was creating on Earth, he had never denied Trunks was his child. How could he have when it was so clear that his blood ran through his half-bred veins? Regarding... Chill, though, Vegeta had not even properly wrapped his head around the fact that he was more than a parasite that had invaded his body before he was gone. 

Beyond that, Trunks may not have been the first son he held, but he _had_ been the first he had held more than once, the first he had seen wake up with the morning sun, the first he had watched grow, the first he had been able to admit that the feeling he felt for him was the purest of love.

There was honor in that, and Vegeta could not take that away from Trunks, second son or not.

While his older son could not have the name that should have been his, he deserved a name no less regal. There were others, of course, names that were just as suitable for a saiyan prince as 'Vegeta' was. 'Tarble', for example, was a well enough name for a second prince. Not that he was considering that one. Vegeta had no desire to name his son after his estranged weakling of a brother.

When he tried to think of others, though, his mind drew blank. It rankled his pride to admit, but he could not remember many saiyan names. He was sure at one point he could have recited histories of noble houses, of past kings and their conniving siblings, of usurpers and conquerors and warriors so renowned their names became bedtime stories. Now, after so many years, his mind remembered hardly any of it. Aside from his own name, his brother's, and his mother's, he could not think of any befitting a prince.

 _Ah_ , he thought, as it clicked. He looked back down at the boy, who looked back at him with expectant eyes. Though it was not just his face that he was seeing but also another, an older one, thin and feminine and only somewhat memorable because photographs had once immortalized it.

His mother.

Vegeta did not know much about her. He had been very young when Planet Vegeta's true queen—one who had not just a pretty, former concubine whose low-class genes had, in the end, sullied his father's second son—had died. His father had not been shy of speaking of her, though. He had told him that she had been even braver than she was beautiful. He had told him she had been a fierce warrior, that she had died a death worthy of a saiyan. He had told him that she had loved her son immensely. 

(His father had not said that last one in as many words, but Vegeta, like all saiyans, knew how to read that sort of thing between the lines. It made him wonder how many times she had held _him_ while she had the chance.)

Vegeta regarded the boy, every minute detail of his face underneath the wounds. The boy's eyes were Frieza's color, but closer to Vegeta's shape. His nose and his chin and his lips belonged to one of them in some way, but his hair—those spikes and that split bang down the middle...

That hair was his mother's.

It could work. His parents had been first cousins, his mother the daughter of his father's uncle, and thus she had been bestowed a name of royal birth. She had been powerful, both as a child and as a woman, supposedly the best in her school year and in every moment beyond. Vegeta was lacking in much information about her, but he had no doubt that she had proven herself to be worthy of the weight of her name.

He just as equally held no doubt that she was worthy of a namesake.

Vegeta nearly hesitated at that. What was it that Bulma had said? That he put too much expectation on Trunks, who was just a child and not at all the kind he himself had been? Would this be doing that very thing?

Vegeta would not delude himself by claiming he knew his son. The simple fact was that he didn't. He hardly knew anything about him at all. He had birthed him, had held him, had fought for his life as hard as he could have, but he did not know him. He did not know what made him laugh, or if the ability to do so had been beaten out of him. He did not know if he had likes, or only things that he disliked. He did not know the sound of his voice, did not know if it had ever existed at all or if it had been snatched away by horrors he would never comprehend. He did not know if he had ever known peaceful dreams, or if nightmares were all he ever had and would ever see. He did not know if he would ever know the thrill of the fight, or if the sight of fists and the feel of pain would only bring about fear.

He did not know how the boy, so nearly grown up yet still so young at the same time, would handle the weight of such a name.

But how could he, as a parent, not want his son to strive for greatness? How could he look at this boy, defeated by every foe except death and not wish for him to be better? How could he not, after helping him stand, want him to know for himself how to never fall again? How could he not want him to be strong, to be brave, to feel joy and anger and pride in himself and every other emotion a man could feel? How could he possibly not want him to have all those things and more?

He was not a conventional child by any means, not the clean slate that most other parents were given to work with. He was broken because he had been hurt, and timid because he was weak, but did that matter? Did the fact that he had never been given a chance to be anything else suddenly make him any less Vegeta's son?

No, it did not, and was it not his greatest duty, after making sure they were well taken care of, to ensure that his children thrived? And was the boy not, by default of being his son and for no other reason, worthy of all Vegeta had to give him?

And Vegeta could give him this: a name he could be proud of, a name that he could strive to reach, a name that, if nothing else, he could make his own.

"Yasai," he said. "That is what your name will be."

The boy's wide, red eyes blinked up at him.

“It was my mother’s name," Vegeta explained. "I didn’t really know her, but your hair looks just like hers. And she had been a formidable woman in her life. I think you will wear the name well.”

The boy blinked a few more times. Then, to Vegeta's astonishment, a grin bloomed beneath the oxygen mask, doppy and drugged but no less real. The boy's first smile for him. 

He hoped he had had reasons to smile before. He would make sure he would have reasons to smile again.

If Vegeta were another man, he might have smiled back. Since he was no one other than himself, he simply laid a hand on the top of the boy's hair, smoothing it down once more. "Rest now, Yasai. When you wake, I will be right here."

 _I will always be here,_ was heard loud and clear.

The boy relaxed underneath his touch. Happy though he had seemed, in the end it was still not enough to combat the exhaustion. It was not long before the boy was asleep once more, peacefully, like he knew he was safe.

"Yasai, huh?" came Bulma's voice, then. 

A bit of the tension Vegeta carried lessened at the sound of it. He had sensed her presence in the doorway a while ago, very aware of the words she was hearing, of the things she was witnessing. Still, he had not asked her to leave, had let her stand and watch and see the man he was behind closed doors, as he had learned to let her do from time to time.

Without meeting her gaze, he said, even though she had heard this much, "It was my mother's name."

Even so, she looked a bit confused. "Your mother's?"

It took a moment for him to realize why. Even now, there were human customs he would never get used to. "Saiyans do not put gender to names. Any name can be used for either sex."

She hummed at that, thoughtful. Then she gave him a smile. "It's a good name. I might have taken it for Trunks had you told me about it," she teased.

He grunted at that, as he often did at her teasing’s, because it was easier than trying to figure out any other response.

The amusement danced in her smile for a moment, before her it softened into something warmer. "I'm glad I didn't, though. It's good that both of the boys have a name from their father."

He was a bit taken aback by that. Father. Vegeta had not consciously allowed himself to ponder on just who he would be to the boy, but the moment she said it, he knew it was true. 

He was no mother, not even for the boy, for Yasai. He had introduced him to the world, yes, had given him life, but he could not be what Bulma was to their son. He could not name quite what it was that made a mother so different from a father, but he felt it all the same.

Also, philosophy aside... he was a man.

She lifted her body from where it leaned against the doorframe and came into the room. His eyes regarded her then, took in her silk, maroon pajamas top and matching silk bottoms. In her arms was a folded-up blanket with a single pillow on top. She held them out to him, and he nodded his gratitude, marveling just a bit at how well his wife knew him, as he took them from her. He dropped them onto the decorative plush ottomans not far from the boy's bed and arranged them until they resembled a makeshift bed. 

He had meant it when he said he would be here when the boy woke.

When he was finished, he turned back around and was met with the sight of Bulma standing over Yasai. The low light did not allow for a proper observation, but he could see the makings of a small smile on her face, and a gentle look in her blue eyes. It was not unlike the kind of face she would make at Trunks when she would tuck him into bed at night.

Vegeta felt his chest tighten at the sight. What could he say in the face of that? How could he possibly express just how it made him feel for his wife to look at his son that way? 

He could not say how much it pleased him that she accepted his son from the very first moment she laid eyes on him. He could not tell her how thankful he was that she cared about his son, despite having no reason to do so. He could not say how much it meant to him that she was willing for the boy to be _their_ son. He just did not have the words to say it all, to say it right.

Before he could try and say it anyway, her face suddenly changed. Not by much, but her smile did falter, and the corners of her eyes spasmed and wavered.

Then the tears came.

Like every other time he was confronted by the physical manifestations of her emotions, he froze.

"Why are you crying?" He demanded in an incredulous, though undeniably concerned tone.

"Sorry," she said as she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. She sniffed several times, looking so very pathetic and so very sad.

Needing something to do, he went over to the nightstand and grabbed the tissue box. He handed it to her, and asked in a tone so soft his cheeks nearly flushed in embarrassment, "What is it?"

"It's just..." she took a deep breath, pulling a tissue weakly from the box. "He looks so _bad_."

She paused to wipe at her eyes properly. Vegeta tried to imagine what he had felt the first time he had seen the boy, but he had felt so much rage these past few days it was nearly impossible to tell what times it had been worse than other times.

In all that time though, he never expected her to feel the same way.

"I knew to expect the worst, but I still... how?" she looked at him then, her eyes begging him to have the answer. "How could they _do_ this to him?"

He did not have an answer. Not one she wanted to hear, anyway. The only answer he could give was one that no one wanted to hear, that there were people out there who could not be satisfied with a win in combat or even in death. There were people who would only be satisfied with pain, with defeated minds, with broken spirits. There were people who saw two monsters in the face of a child, and not even his innocence was enough to cleanse the stain.

They did it because Frieza had sired him and Vegeta had birthed him, and while he would always have some level of pride in himself, it would never be the same. He had been mocked, bested, defeated at so many turns, but they paled in comparison to what he felt now. He could not have that type of pride again, not when he would feel this guilt for the rest of his life.

He could not say that, but truthfully, he did not have to. Bulma already knew that much... but knowing did not always make the truth easier to swallow.

At that same time though, he said "I don't know," because just as truthfully, he _did not_ know. He knew the facts, the motivations, the justifications, but his mind would never be able to comprehend them, not truly. He would never be able to understand how someone could look at his child, his precious son, his innocent baby, and do what they had done.

She accepted his answer, for all that it wasn't an answer at all. She finished wiping her face, smearing the makeup she had had yet to wash off, then tossed the tissue into the waste bin.

Then, she turned to him. One of her slim hands slipped into his, soft against the callouses and scars of his own. Her eyes, bluer than the sky and ocean combined, pinned him down. They shone with determination, with stubbornness, with all the things that made him love her.

"He'll be okay," she said, in a tone that left no room for argument, a tone that spoke only the truth. "It might not be easy, but he will be. We'll make sure of it."

He let his eyes take her in. He thought of her that night so many years ago, after she had gone through hell and back birthing their son all alone. He thought of how her frazzled hair and sickly skin had looked that night. He thought about how even though he scarcely allowed himself to look at her, he had thought that he had never seen anyone look just as beautiful in the light of the moon as they did in the sun. 

She looked that way now, a new mother once more. Her hair—though the efforts she had undoubtedly indulged in that morning were by now obsolete—was not quite as frazzled, and her skin was not pallidly pale, but even so he felt the same he had felt that night. She was only more beautiful now because he could see her eyes, could see the way the moon played in the cerulean, could she what she felt for him reflecting in the stellar light.

"I love you," he said.

They both were shocked, and he could not say who was more so. Probably him, for while Bulma's only reaction was a widening of eyes, he felt a bit like the floor had given out underneath him. Then he felt like he _wanted_ the floor to give out underneath him.

After a moment, her wide eyes softened. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet.

"I know," she said.

 _"Very smooth,"_ he might have said if the last vestiges of his nerves were not still prickling his skin, and if he were the type of man to make such a joke. Instead, all he did was grunt in a way that he hoped sounded unimpressed. It didn't, if the way she nearly giggled in response was anything to go by.

She turned away from him then and faced the boy once more. She grabbed the blanket, and pulled it further up his body, Yasai none the wiser. After she had tucked it nearly to his chin, she bent at the waist, bringing her face down to his level. The same hand that had held Vegeta's now stroked over the boy's forehead, smoothing back the bang and fly-away hairs.

"And _I_ love _you_ ," she said, pressing an even sweeter kiss where her hand once ran. It was a display of affection, but it was also a promise. A promise for sweet dreams. A promise for healing. A promise of unconditional devotion. A promise for the future. A promise between a mother and her child.

He would be okay, she had said. They would make sure it happened, she had said.

 _Yes_ , he thought. They would. 

* * *

In Aricot's opinion, the corridor to his Lord's main hall was not nearly long enough. 

He acknowledged that his opinion was rather skewed, given that at the other end of the hall would be the deliverance of bad news that would come from his lips, and he knew just how well it would all work out for him.

He walked as slow as he dared, the tap of his well-worn boots against the linoleum floor betraying his lack of urgency. It was shameful, he knew, to disparage his Lord with his attitude. He should walk with pride every time he sought out his Lord's presence. While his faction was not one that was particularly large or well-known as of yet, it was still one worth fearing, and Aricot, a boy scarcely past his sixteenth year, had the honor of being his right hand man. It was here that Aricot found respect, was on his way to gaining prestige, and he dared to dislike any part of this?

He acknowledged those truths, and yet he still walked with a fear that grew heavier with each step. It was hard not to feel it when he knew just how well his Lord took bad news. The black bruises that often marred his yellow skin in the aftermath was all the proof he needed.

On the way, he passed a soldier tending to a chest plate that had long outlived its usefulness. The nerves eating away at everything inside of him must have shown on his face, because instead of making depreciating remarks about his young age or his admittedly abysmal battle skills as many of the men often did, he simply regarded him with a raised brow.

"Going to see the Lord, boy?"

Aricot could not even muster up the usual irritation he felt when called such a belittling thing. "Yes. There has been... a grave incident."

He did not know why he felt inclined to share. Perhaps if another person knew, the gravity of the situation would not be so heavy. So far, it wasn't working.

The man grunted, and it almost sounded sympathetic. "Best of luck to you."

"Yes, I hope so," he admitted.

Long before he was ready, he reached the door leading into the main hall. He knew there was no point in trying to hide his presence now, not when his Lord could sense him. In all actuality probably knew he was coming the moment he began his way over, sensed him walking down the long hallways, sensed him stopping to chat when he was supposed to be delivering news, sensed the terrified thoughts bouncing through his head...

Both the motion sensor and the manual button had malfunctioned some time back, so he reached over, and squeezed his fingers in against the edge of the door. If by some twist of fate his Lord had not already noticed him, it was ruined by his grunts of labor, and the creaking of the door sliding along the track of the threshold.

He stepped inside, and the door slid mercilessly shut. 

"Aricot," said his Lord. 

His back was to him, and before him was the long expanse of space through glass that was, thankfully, sturdier than the rest of the ship. Aricot wondered what it was he saw out there, why seemingly every time he came here his Lord was doing this very thing. He doubted simple stars would captivate his attention so.

"My Lord," he replied, dropping down to his knee. Several strands of long, shamrock green hair fell into his face when he bent his head forward. It was a useless, though no less comforting barrier.

"Why are you here unannounced? I don't recall requesting your presence."

"My apologies, my Lord, but there is something"—he swallowed thickly—" _urgent_ I must tell you."

His Lord hummed, and waved one hand, his fingers gliding through the air like silk blades, beckoning him to speak. Aricot blinked several times, fighting every moment to ensure his words came out evenly. A useless endeavor—his Lord knew just how terrified he was—but it was the only way he could bear to speak at all.

"Tene'mareen has been destroyed, sir."

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Then: "What?"

"The planet was destroyed, sir," he repeated uselessly, the sweat coming in so thickly now it nearly ran into his eyes. "Our sources report that Tene'mareen exploded only hours ago. A handful of escape ships have been recorded exiting the atmosphere before the explosion, though our intel runs dry there."

Here came the hardest thing to say. "There has been no word about Chill. It is highly possible that he perished along with the planet."

There was silence once more, such painful silence. The foreboding sense of danger had begun to permeate the air, but even if running would do any good, Aricot could not manage it. His body stayed rooted to the floor, trembling from shoulders to feet, waiting for the blow that would come and would possibly be his last.

Then, without warning, the danger vanished. The weight lifted and the air cleared, like it had never been there at all.

"He lives," said his Lord.

"Sir..."

"I feel him," his Lord went on, his voice sounding far away, like his body had left this realm entirely for some place much nicer. "He is far, but I feel him. He sleeps, somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere..."

His Lord stopped. Aricot waited with bated breaths.

"He is with his mother," he said eventually, and the peace from before was gone, replaced with the bitter taste of displeasure, one that was at least not so oppressive as before.

Of all things he expected his Lord to say though, that had not been one of them. "Sir, I..." he began, but when he could think of nothing to follow up with, he ended lamely, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Are you?" asked his Lord. "Why ever so?"

The tone of his voice sounded genuinely curious, but Aricot knew better. He had miss-stepped, but it was too late to backtrack. All he could do was try and manage the damage as much as possible. "He has escaped your... justice."

"No, you're wrong, Aricot," he said, the pleasantness in his voice a falsehood of safety. "I told you I can feel him. He is far but not out of reach."

"B-But sir!" He should keep his mouth shut, it was not his place to speak against him, but how could he listen to his Lord speak so recklessly? "You said you've left the saiyans be because you said you could not win against him in a test of raw power. To seek them out now would be a grave mistake!"

Perhaps that was too far. Who was he too blatantly doubt his Lord's judgement? Thankfully, his Lord did not seem offended by the disrespect. Instead, he asked, "What is a body, Aricot?"

"I—sir?" he questioned, thoroughly thrown off. 

"What is a body, Aricot?" he repeated. "Truly, the essence of it."

"I... I'm not sure what answer you're looking for, sir," he admitted.

His Lord hummed again, the sound pleasant and indulging, like a teacher guiding along an ignorant student to the truth.

"It is a husk, Aricot," he said. "An outer shell. It is a protective shield, because it is what is _inside_ that is far more precious."

His Lord turned on his heel to face him, and Aricot was pinned down by his gaze. He could see it all in his eyes: the joy, the rage, the mania.

"I've had a revelation," his Lord told him, sounding so profoundly pleased. "There are other ways, _better_ ways to defeat a man. Ways only a true _pest_ could accomplish."

In that instant, Aricot knew exactly what he meant. 

"Yes, sir," he said, because that was what a good soldier said in the face of true genius, of true power, of something truly deserving to be feared.

His Lord turned back to the window. "This is a setback, but not an impossibility. In fact, it might even be a gift in disguise. What is pain without pleasure to negate it? It is nothing. But to know love and have it ripped away..."

His Lord paused then, so overcome with the pleasure that seemed to invoke that his body visibly trembled from it. Aricot tried not to wonder what kind of expression was on his face. He tried not to think about how his stomach stomach twisted and turned with unease.

"I will find him, and finish what I started, what I should have ended long ago," his Lord said, though Aricot knew he was not speaking to him. His mind was gone, flying somewhere far from this room. His words were meant for ears that were far away but would not be for long.

To the glass, to the stars, to a little boy resting in a hospital bed, he said, "Wait for me, Chill. I'm coming for you, and when I have you, I'll see to it that you get exactly what you deserve. _Permanently_."

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yasai is the Japanese word for ‘Vegetable’. Seeing as how ‘Vegeta’ and ‘Tarble’ are very obvious plays on the word, ‘Yasai’ seemed like it would be fitting as a royal saiyan name.
> 
> REGARDING THE SEQUEL. I decided to post this story even though the sequel, has not been revised as of yet. I've spent so much time rewriting this that I need a bit of a mental break from this universe. Even so, I wholeheartedly promise it won't take another five years for an update from me. The sequel, when updated, will be named 'Let Your Eyes Look Straight Ahead'.


End file.
